


Northern Lights and Midnight Sun

by Ownsariver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 35
Words: 236,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ownsariver/pseuds/Ownsariver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picking up where GRRM left us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Vale

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: A Song of Ice and Fire and its characters do not belong to me.  
> Thanks to: My brilliant BETA, The Moonmoth! :-)

Alayne stood in her father`s solar in the Gates of Moon, going through a report on the tax income from Gull Town, frowning slightly. Something irked her about the figures, but everything seemed in balance.

One of the nice things about being Petyr’s daughter was the way her father encouraged her to set her mind to use. Maester Colemon clearly enjoyed teaching her every subject she set her mind to. And to her own wonderment, she found the broadening knowledge of how the world worked - from small households to kingdoms - to be amazingly interesting.

When she couldn`t sleep, late night in her own bed, she sometimes allowed herself to reflect that in some ways, this was a second chance. She marveled at how hard the gods had needed to try her, before the shallow shell had shattered around her, making her see the world as it was. She could almost hear the Hound’s hoarse laughter at the jokes her life had played on her. For at what cost had she finally learned?

In her dreams, nightmares, she saw the little girl that once she was, running to the queen again and again and again, telling her the plans her real sire had made for the Seven Kingdoms, unable to stop her. How much would have been different if someone had just locked her up in her rooms that night?

But the never-ending terror and fear of her former life was behind her. She was older now, her body and mind more mature, her hard-earned lessons the basis for a quite different point of view from that giggling child with her head in a rainbow.

By all means, she still loved the songs and the stories, still enjoyed beauty and lemoncakes. It was just that she interpreted the songs a different way, read the histories of Westeros and the lands beyond the Narrow Sea _in addition_ to the stories of her childhood, and beauty was a whole new concept to her. She sometimes thought that the only thing she experienced equally, now as then, was lemoncakes.

She had tried to suppress her former identity for a long time, going into the role of Alayne until she thought of herself _only_ as Alayne, never Sansa. But these last months Sansa had been creeping towards the surface of her mind again.

Sometimes she wondered if that was a good thing at all. Her father’s subtle advances had begun to include fondling her breasts, and touching her hips and thighs, far too close to her private parts. As long as it was _her father_ doing it, she could allow herself to feel a real rising of nausea. Feeling the _wrongness_ in the otherwise charming man.

But with her mind slowly changing back into Sansa, she was forced to face the harsh reality of a broken world. Petyr Baelish had gotten her out of the nightmare of King’s Landing, first and foremost for political reasons, but with the Mad Whore Queen as regent he _had_ clearly saved her life.

He could have done much worse than squeezing her breasts. Pillow talks with Randa had taught her that there were lots of ways to have a woman without taking her maidenhead. With gossip from the North seeping in about the Bolton brides… Sansa could not believe that Arya was that second bride. Arya would have wreacked absolutely havoc and likely gotten herself killed in the act, but would never, _never_ have stood for that treatment. Not a chance in the seven hells.

Yet like it or not, Westeros was not a civil part of the world anymore, and all Littlefinger had done was touch her indecently while she sat in his lap, breathing her dead mother’s name in her ear. Wasn`t that a cheap price to pay for her life? Shouldn`t she just grit her teeth and endure it?

And yet… the Hound had saved her life once, during the riot, and he had not expected anything in return. He had only been doing what he was paid for, she supposed - strangely, that thought annoyed her - but then, of course, when he had shown up a broken man in her room, _in her bed_ , during the Battle of the Blackwater… he _had_ taken a song… _and a kiss…_ It was just that, as with the tax figures from Gull Town, something _irked_ her about that kiss too. Still, he could just as well have raped her and slit her throat… Why hadn`t he? That was another thing that kept surfacing: her mind’s private puzzle of the Hound.

Being a bastard had its clear benefits. Even if Petyr always had one of his many eyes on her, she was allowed a liberating amount of freedom. Playing the role of a bastard daughter also meant doing what bastard daughters were supposed to do, saying what they were supposed to say. The Lady Myranda taking the quite… liberal… lead in what young women could do with dignity made life at the Gates of Moon quite entertaining.

Sansa didn`t need to be told to preserve her maidenhead, but innocent kisses, flirting and indecent pillow talks were part of the bastard bargain. Off course it was fun to play, but the more she learned and understood of the mysteries of love and passion, the more the Hound kept puzzling her.

She was starting to see his actions on her behalf in a different light. The first time she remembered that he had disobeyed Joffrey’s direct command to hit her, she actually had to sit down. Ser Dontos had intervened, yes, but Joffrey had been cruel enough to demand the Hound’s head for such an offense, or find some horrible way to punish him… with fire probably... but the Hound had kept protecting her to the best of his abilities. And he had offered to take her away, protect her, let no one hurt her… _'or I`d kill them.'_

She had only been a little girl, but so had Arya - and her savage little sister hadn`t been afraid of _anything._ How could Sansa have let her overwhelming terror make her lose the only person in King’s Landing trying to take care of her? Even if he had done it in his own rough way? The Tyrells had only wanted to frame her for murder, and regicide at that! It was all utterly confusing.

She had cried the first time she heard that Joffrey’s former dog was dead. Snuck away to her rooms, bolted the door and cried silently into her pillow. She`d even spent hours in the godswood, thinking and praying that his bitter, ravaged soul would find peace. More time, she was ashamed to admit, than she had spent praying for Sweetrobin, who lay sleeping all the time now, unable to wake.

But the Hound kept resurfacing, Saltpans being the worst of it. Then again, she hadn`t believed him still alive when she heard that story, because Sandor Clegane simply would not burn a city to the ground around his head. Yet, the man seemed impossible to kill, gossip seeping into the Vale from the world beyond. Now she grinned inwardly at the thought of him continuing to roam free, in spite of everything. After all, nobody could say that the younger Clegane wasn`t a survivor.

Which thought brought Sansa right back to her puzzle again. There were many pretty knights and even comely squires, Lords who would try to tumble her and singers with beautiful voices. But not one of them had the Hound’s ferocity, his harsh truth, dark humor or, unnecessary to say, his physical strength and fighting skills.

Which a normal young woman would survive pretty nicely without actually… but to Sansa, it dulled all the men she flirted with. It was really hard trying to make impressed sounds, listening to some knight brag of his supposed victories in the joust, when thinking that the Hound would have beaten him to a pulp without breaking a sweat. _Summer knights_ she thought, not knowing exactly where she had heard the phrase.

And deep in her dreams he came to her bed again, doing all the things Randa whispered to her about during their pillow talks. It made her wake up, blushing and aching, wanting the dream to have lasted just a moment longer. Finding her release on her own was nothing to the few times the dream continued on.

She was disturbed out of her thoughts when she heard footsteps approaching the door to the office. Concentrating once more on the figures in front of her, she presented the perfect picture of Petyr’s perfect protege when the man himself entered the room.

Sansa smiled pleasantly at him while he crossed the floor. “My beautiful daughter,” he murmured, pursing his lips for a kiss. She kissed him, like she always did, good girl that she was, feeling his lips move over hers and bile rise in the back of her throat.

She broke the kiss as if she suddenly remembered something. “Father, something annoys me about this report, but I can`t put my finger on it.”

Petyr looked amused and cast a glance at the parchment in her hands. “Ah, that one, yes. I put it there to test you.” Eyes twinkling he leaned in over the paper, cheek against cheek. _Too close!_ “Now, where does the accounts… annoy you most?”

Trying to control her body from jerking away from her supposed father, she answered, “Well, all the figures are in balance, and they _seem_ correct, the report is neatly done. But somehow, the tax income from the pepper-trade seems a bit… high… But why would any merchant pay too much tax, let alone a full town?”

Petyr laughed out loud and laid an arm around her back, stroking her arm. Her skin crawled, and Sansa noticed anew how she was already taller than him. “My clever, clever Alayne. Why, indeed. Why would a town pay too much tax when winter is coming and the Seven Kingdoms lies in ruins?” He smiled at her appraisingly. “The answer is simple, the enlarged income of the pepper-trade... _It does not exist!_ But everyone knows there is money in pepper, so they can safely alter the numbers there believing their betters will not realize it, and then conceal the real issue.”

Despite herself, Sansa felt intrigued. “The real issue being…?”

Petyr chuckled, “My dear daughter, what does a land always need in wartime besides fighting men, weapons and willing wenches?”

“Food,” she answered promptly and wonderingly. “They`re concealing a black-marked in food-supplies! Trying to lull us into contentment by paying us thrice the tax on pepper.”

“Good girl!” Petyr exclaimed, sliding his hand down to her waist, pulling her even closer to him. “Such suspicions needs to be confirmed of course, but as a matter of fact I`ve already received ravens with messages that states that our thoughts are quite correct.” 

His minty breath was making Sansa nauseous, so she turned around as an excuse to look directly at him. “What will your actions be towards Gull Town’s Merchants’ Guilds, then?”

“Nothing, for now” Petyr smiled, his expression steely. “This will be the hot poker that breaks them to my will later.” Sansa swallowed. “But, my dear, I have another matter to discuss with you,” he continued, not quite concealing the hungry gleam in his eyes. “We have a troublesome guest who presented himself at the gates not two hours ago, half starved and all alone. I need to hear your clever view on what to do with him.” He smiled warmly at her, giving her upper arm a squeeze of fatherly affection, but something about his tone disturbed her.

Not letting her true worry show, she furrowed her brow in mock puzzlement. “Well, why would you need my opinion, when you have an excellent mind of your own?”

Petyr smiled as he stroked his pointed beard. “Firstly, because I love to watch you drawing the right conclusions,” he smiled. ”Secondly, because it`s Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.” 

_My uncle!_ Careful not to let her excitement show, Sansa deepened her puzzled expression. “Why would the Blackfish`s reappearance be a matter that you needed to discuss with me?” she asked. “After all, your baseborn daughter should have no say in the treatment of highborn nobility.”

Petyr, her father, looked level-eyed at her. “And if the correct treatment of highborn nobility should demand guestright and the sharing of our bread and salt?”

Sansa looked him straight in his green-grey eyes. “Then your bastard daughter, doing her chores, should not interest him. After all, this being a formal occasion welcoming the former Knight of the Gate home, I will sit below the salt where I belong.”

Littlefinger’s face cracked up in a proud grin. “This is what I mean by watching you draw the right conclusions!”

 

The Blackfish  
Brynden Tully was greeted with all courtesy and respect by a smiling Littlefinger. He was fed and bathed and found new clothes prepared in his old apartment. The rest of the day he used trying to get an overall view of what had happened in the Vale since his departure so many months before. Despite the power struggle between Petyr Baelish and the grand Lords of the Vale, it became pretty clear that Littlefinger had surprisingly quickly gotten an iron grip over this part of the Seven Kingdoms. But of course, Brynden had known beforehand that the former ward of Riverun was frighteningly capable.

“No surprise there,” he muttered to himself, descending the steps to the great hall where a feast for his return had been quickly arranged. The mood was good, Lady Myranda, Horton Redfort and Yohn Royce were attending, wine and talk flowed freely. Littlefinger was nothing if not a good host, toasting to Brynden’s amazing journey, praising his ability to twist himself out of tricky situations and survive. Despite his inner uneasiness about the Lord Protector of the Vale, Brynden found a surprising feeling of having returned home to friends. _It`s just family I lack, then,_ he thought, but Nestor Royce felt more a brother than Hoster Tully ever had half his life.

Servants were bustling between the seated guests with a course of mountain goat roasted with salt, garlic and rosemary. Big trenchers with baked potatoes and long red peppers followed suit. Soon, most of the guests were well into their cups, serving girls were beginning to slap away unwanted attention, Bronze Yohn was holding a rather heated speech about _the blasted Lannister bastards,_ and a couple was kissing most thoroughly at the back of the hall.

And that was when he saw her. At first he couldn`t understand the jump his heart did. Surely he was too old to let a beautiful face leave him dazed, but then the resemblance to Catelyn hit him. Poor Catelyn’s fate still made him wake up at night, but there was more to the girl than a physical likeness to his dead niece. It was in the way she held her head, and used her hands to gesticulate as she spoke to Mya Stone. If her hair had been auburn instead of brown, she would have been the spick image of Catelyn when she was still engaged to Brandon Stark… and that was just too much of a coincidence. Petyr Baelish had been head over heels in love with Catelyn at that time, no chance in the seven hells he would miss seeing the likeness… and still, he didn`t cast a single glance in the girl’s direction.

Excusing himself for a visit to the privy, he stopped a soldier staggering in the same direction. “Hey, boy, the new wench talking to Mya; would she be offended if a man asks her for a tumble with some gold tossed in?”

The man turned bleary eyes in the direction of the hall, making out the lower part of the long-table. “Oh, Alayne she`s called, Lord Protector’s bastard. Guards her cunt, that one. Supposed to be a septa. She`s all in for a kiss, but nothing more.” The man reeled a bit.

“Thank you, always good to know,” Brynden replied with a grin and a slap on the soldiers back. “Anyone else to recommend?”

As it was, the guy had several, and Brynden ended up going with a lively blonde serving wench to her chambers not long after. Both to cover up if Littlefinger came sniffing, but also because it had been a hell of a long time since he had had a woman. But all the way down the stairs, walking with his cock fixated on the woman’s plump bottom, his only thought was that unless Petyr Baelish had managed to put his little finger into Catelyn Stark and produced a secret twin to the daughter in her womb... the girl in the hall was Sansa Stark.


	2. Quiet Isle

Digging graves was fair enough work when you had nothing better to do with a body that screamed for exercise, Sandor reasoned. Working in this fucking robe was another matter. How the hell did women survive life in a dress without going insane? He instantly imagined himself in silks and guffawed out aloud in the chilled morning air. _Fuck, too long in quiet solitude._ Grumbling to himself he continued the repeated shovelling, putting his full weight and effort into the movement, making it yet another exercise.

The only person he was allowed to talk to was Elder Brother. Mercifully that was the only person Sandor actually cared to talk to on this blasted island. He despised the other brothers for their softness, laziness and, in Sandor’s opinion, uselessness.  


Elder Brother had slowly earned his way into Sandor’s good graces, though, not a task done by many. The man knew a soldier’s life, sins and habits. He had proven himself in combat and knew the horrors, pleasures and pains of battlefields. Elder Brother’s whole being demanded respect in a quiet way Sandor had never come across before, and lastly, the buggering fucker had absolutely no fear of Sandor’s face or reputation. _No wonder, finding me crying like a bloody infant under that tree, getting my pathetic confession._

Elder Brother still hadn`t returned from his pious journey to meet up with the spiritual leaders of neighbouring septs, which was... worrying. What in the Stranger’s name could be worth spending all this time talking with shrunken, old bats in dresses at this time of year? And with the land drenched in fire and blood, half of those old bats in dresses would probably not make it home, armed faith or not.

With Elder Brother gone, the brother left in his stead to lead the Silent Brothers of the Quiet Isle had already begun rubbing Sandor entirely the wrong way. Not only had the sod started to demand that Sandor attend _every bloody sermon_ , but he`d also forbidden him to train with weapons, bloody well preaching down his thin nose at Sandor for neglecting to follow the God’s precepts! The only reasonable explanation, he droned, for Sandor being on this island when the Hound was out there burning and raping, was to show Sandor the way out of his life of violence. And _that_ could simply not be done while continuing to train his body as a weapon. The solution to it all was hours of praying on his knees, in Brother Jared’s opinion... or breaking Brother Jared’s neck, in Sandor’s. So far he had managed to restrain himself.

Sandor had even tried to _reason_ with the lack-wit. Telling him that altering Elder Brother’s rule for a month would just be fucking stupid, and the sole reason he was on this island _at all_ was that Elder Brother wouldn`t let him die, for fuck’s sake. Seven hells, if the robed idiot hadn`t left Sandor’s helmet on the Hound’s grave the name wouldn`t be doing _anything_ right now. But explaining to Brother Jared as calmly as he could that he had _no_ faith in the Seven or any other god - that asking him to pray night and day wouldn`t help _him_ any more than a Silent Sister heavy with child - only seemed to upset the skinny sod further. Sandor had finally resorted to admitting through gritted teeth that in Elder Brother’s absence, the only thing that really helped him to _not_ smash their cellar-door to pieces and drink himself senseless on holy wine, was swordwork and training Stranger. But the filthy, little bastard had just laughed loftily, answering that if the Gods really wanted him to drink himself to death, they would provide.

They had not, so far. Or, as Sandor saw it, he had managed to hold himself in check. Blasted Elder Brother and his influence, bugger Jared and his prissy, skinny arse. Sandor felt stubborn sort of pride for trying to play by the rules for once, respecting the hierarchy or what the hell they chose to call the idiocy _despite_ Elder Brother's absence. So he dug graves by day, and trained by night, before and after midnight sermon.

*

He couldn`t remember anything of the journey here, only fevered glints of being carried in a rickety wagon pulled by an old plowhorse. And pain. But physical pain was a part of his trade and somehow comforting in its own way, when the worst edge of it had been dulled, that was. The real pain was waking up a week later to realize he hadn`t escaped this wretched life this time either, but had been left with a lame leg and no purpose whatsoever.

For the first time in his life he just gave up. Didn`t care what the buggering brothers did to him, his wound or where the hell he was. He had finally reached rock solid bottom. The only thing he wanted was wine, and that was denied him. His thoughts floated in a never-ending spiral of self-loathing, regrets, disappointments and plain sorrow. Yes, he`d agreed to bury the Hound and the Lannister dog with him. Elder Brother insisted that before healing could happen the rotten flesh must be cleaned away. Couldn`t disagree with that, could he? He`d seen it happen more times than he could count, most recently to his blasted leg. But he was still the wretched creature who had lived through and done all the things that finally put the Hound to rest, and he couldn`t fucking bury himself because Elder Brother wouldn`t let him die. And then the Hound flaming _arose_ , smearing his name for all time. Ah, what a bloody mess.

In the end Elder Brother had walked into his room, given him a mighty slap in the face, and smiled when Sandor roared in spinal response. Then he had mercilessly started buggering him around all day. 

It had disturbed him a bit, when Elder Brother had told him how he`d used maggots to clean the wound, but when looking at his injury properly for the first time since the wolfbitch helped him clean it, his mouth fell open. Usually, with the dead meat cut away, he would have lost a big amount of muscle-tissue in his thigh, but this just looked like a bit of a messy wound, healing nicely. Maybe it _was_ some truth in the man's reputation as a great healer, after all...

Then there had followed ointments, bending and stretching. Followed again by training. First walking, and then all sorts of absurd exercises. Sandor ended up being the reluctant, sullen participant - cursing the blasted man with every other breath, knowing full well that if he really picked a fight with the ex-knight right now he would lose extraordinarily. Which irked him _no end_. Bloody hell...

The day Sandor grumpily had requested a sword so he could get some _real_ exercise, finally feeling strong enough to smack some respect into the annoying bastard: he had promptly gotten one, to his immense surprise. Elder Brother just wanted Sandor to inform him the day he felt like sparring. Of course, working the forms with a sword was a fabulous way to train balance, body control and strength. Somehow, Sandor felt fooled.

As his health, strength and skills returned, the never-ending pull towards wine seemed to withdraw some of its claws. When he`d still been bed-bound, he`d felt sick beyond anything he`d experienced before, longing to drown every feeling and thought out of his body and mind as his flesh burned and shook around his racing heart. He`d blamed the sweat-drenched sheets and vomiting on his leg, but Elder Brother had looked quizzically at his face. The need to drink himself to sweet oblivious unconsciousness had always been lurking, but he`d never realized how strong it`d felt. He`d been sober on duty, drunk off duty for so many years that the habit had stuck. After all, living with himself without something to occupy his attention, or sleeping without drink, was out of the question.

So now, he hardly slept, and all he could think of was a little bird, with beautiful auburn and Tully-blue plumage, chirping in her cage... but when he finally fell into fitful sleep, she sang for him from the treetops. Even when he fucked into his hand late at night, imagining how her body would look now, _feel_ underneath him now, the thought of how her beautiful face would look when she reached her release always sent him over the edge, groaning into his pillow.

Elder Brother had gotten the full confession out of him, bloody bastard, when he lay dying under that tree, but the bugger couldn`t leave it there, no. Sandor had been forced to talk about all that shit after he got better too. All his frustration and pain, the night that had broken him, how he had left her for the fucking lions, how he hated himself for wanting _her_ , when her body was too young. It was like a curse. He hadn`t managed to stay away from her, but she`d annoyed him no end with her terrified chirping, with the way she`d never looked him in his face unless he`d forced her. He annoyed _himself_ no end for _wanting_ her to look at him, and… not be repulsed by him, at least. He even talked about the horror of watching her being beaten without being able to do anything that wouldn`t end with getting his head on a spike.

After the time Elder Brother had made him angry enough to blurt the whole thing anew, they had been sitting in silence for a while. At last Elder Brother raised his head and looked at him, clear blue eyes meeting his. “Well, you certainly chose the wrong girl to fall helplessly in love with,” he said with that fucking, _irritating_ , kind smile of his.

“By the Stranger's balls, didn`t I just tell you she annoys the shit out of me?” Sandor barked, suddenly furious.

Elder Brother raised his hand. “That`s one side of it," he said calmly. "You`re also in pure agony for not knowing where she is, or if she`s safe, and after putting so many… _colourful…_ words to Tyrion Lannister’s name, I would also think you`re as jealous as it`s possible to be. I would call this experiencing the brutal reality of being unhappily in love.”

Sandor had drunk himself to the floor on stolen strongwine that night, paying mightily for it the day after. The hangover was one thing; Elder Brother’s kind pat on his shoulder as the only response nearly had him raving.

*

He knew what he was good at. He was a superior fighter, the talent for violence strong in the family, obviously… Lethal in all the arts of war he`d been trained in: unarmed combat, poniard, dirk and dagger, lances, spears, axes. How to use the shield and buckler as a weapon to strike, push, hack and pin in addition to defence. And of course his preferred weapon the sword: one-handed, two-handed or the greatsword. Mounted or on the ground he was brutality itself to meet in combat. All kinds of fighting gave him leave to unleash the savage side of himself, knowing he could rip the bastards to pieces if he wanted. The adrenaline pumping in his veins, the rush to his head, the bloodlust afterwards… It made him feel in his right element, drunk or not.

Seeing his skills from an early age, the Lannisters had sat him to good use, despite his later contempt for and refusal of knighthood. As a second son of a minor house, he`d worked himself up the ranks quickly, smashing every fucker who thought to show him where he belonged. Looking like a bloody nightmare worked to his advantage as well. He could frighten the most arrogant, highborn knight into respect in no time. _Bloody cravens._

So he was flaming great at guarding the mighty, drinking himself senseless and keeping people away from him. He`d go wenching as well as any soldier, but he knew that he paid to get pleasure and release. Whores and wenches were usually only good for getting the bloodlust out of your system and your cock down. Some of them could even pretend well enough to let him imagine how it would feel to actually be with someone who cared. _If_ he was drunk enough, which he found utterly pathetic. But mostly they took his money, looked repulsed by his face, and let him fuck them. He didn`t give a shit.

That had been his whole life, and it fit his disillusionment brilliantly. When you we`re an ugly villain without land, titles or family that matters, nobody wanted you anyway. You made a life and living out of what you did best, wreacking havoc. And you did it where your master pointed.

In King’s Landing, he had reached that stage of not giving a damn a long time ago. And then some little, northern bird had started picking holes in his armour. He didn`t know when he`d really found himself fascinated with Sansa Stark, but it hadn`t taken long before he found himself changing loyalties. He had been so frustrated by her naivety and innocence, wanting her to learn the lessons he had before it was too late, hating himself for having that soft spot. The little, chirping bird had been all alone against the lions who had devoured her family, and with Joffrey turning into the tyrant he was constructed to be by his darling mother, Sandor had ended up defending her as best he could. In the process she had, frustratingly enough, imprinted herself onto his soul.

And that was the buggering problem, wasn`t it? He had no training or experience in trying to fight Little Birds out of his inner being. At that, he was as incompetent as a twelve-year-old squire with his fingers up a cunt.


	3. On the road again

Sandor rode Stranger while brooding sullenly about how life just _wanted_ to make him miserable one way or another. Glancing back at the riders behind him he wondered how in the seven hells it could come to this. She would fucking kill him. Or worse, cry with that hysterical note to her voice like she`d done the day Joff had made her father a head shorter.

Elder Brother had at long last arrived on the Quiet Isle again, dragging along that blasted, barefoot wandering septon. Meribald, what kind of name was that? The only sane thing about that man - stamping around half of Westeros in late autumn with bare feet as he did - was the dog he brought along. Sandor had been at mass when he saw them through a window, newly arrived and on their way to stable the mules. Making Brother Jared completely lose it, screaming red-faced at him like a madman, Sandor had instantly gone out to train in daylight.

Elder Brother had smiled when he saw him work the forms and asked him to come to his office after practice. That was bloody fine with Sandor as practice turned out to take all day, training Stranger as well. When he at last had walked the whitewashed corridors to Elder Brother’s Hermit Hole, he`d felt nearly content. His muscles were aching pleasantly and he`d been satisfied with his mount’s progress. Something the buggering sod surely knew how to take advantage of, make no mistake about that.

Seven hells, what was a man to do when somebody kicked your legs out from under you like that? Elder Brother, the underhanded sod, had started out by telling him that the the Faith of the Seven bloody well _knew_ where Sansa Stark had disappeared to.

 _Right._ Bugger him. That didn`t phase him at all, did it?

Mercifully, his body moved on its own, going into the most bored, impassive guard-stance he knew, instead of dropping him right on his fucking arse. Still, the expectant expression on Elder Brother’s face as he told him - in front of Meribald and all - made him want to beat the man bloody.

Then the bugger had started elaborating on how they`d received a message through the sept at the Gates of Moon. It turned out Brynden Tully, the bloody Blackfish himself, wasn`t laying in some shallow, frosted grave in the riverlands after all. He`d apparently sprouted gills and swum up the Trident all the way to the Vale. It was the only reasonable explanation for the old bastard surviving through this Lannister-controlled area with his head intact. It was nearly impressive.

The Blackfish was in no way pleased with the irongrip Littlefinger seemed to have on the Vale, and even _less_ pleased with the fact that he had Baelish’s eyes on him night and day. But what really had set him off was the discovery of his niece, heir to the north, hiding in plain sight as Petyr Baelish’s baseborn daughter, her impish husband nowhere to be seen. Fucking hells. Trying to suppress the massive chaos that threatened to shake his insides to mush, feeling the burned side of his mouth twitch, Sandor had coldly asked what the fuck this had to do with him.

Elder Brother had smiled sadly at him, before quietly telling him he knew Brynden Tully from a former life, a violent life. _What in seven hells is wrong with that? Have you seen the world we live in?_ Gods, he wanted to throttle the man sometimes. Elder Brother’s smile had turned wry, though, like he knew what Sandor was thinking, but continued the tale as placidly as a plowhorse. Blackfish, the crafty bastard, had managed to smuggle a message to his old comrade in arms through the sept, disguised as him grieving for his mostly extinct family. In return for saving Elder Brother’s life once, the Blackfish wanted help planning a quest, the Quiet Isle being the perfect background for secrecy. He trusted Elder Brother’s knowledge of quality in fighting men, and his wisdom in complicated situations.

The complicated situations being _firstly_ that the Blackfish was twiddling his thumbs in a deadlock as long as Sansa was still in Baelish’s clutches. His every movement was observed, Littlefinger’s eyes adn ears everywhere. If Baelish got as much as a sniff of the Blackfish’s disclosure, the last Stark piece on the board would disappear like fog in the sun. Sansa herself was either too frightened to contact her uncle or clever enough to have reached the same conclusions. _Frightened shitless most likely, bloody King’s Landing all over!_ The instant the girl was safely spirited away on the other hand... Brynden had the loyalty and alliance of the great Lords of the Vale... It didn`t paint a pretty picture for Littlefinger.

But just as Sandor had instinctively started adding the numbers as _any_ fighting man would have done, the worst part was tossed into the mess as if on a bleeding sidenote: Sansa Stark could very well be content masquerading as Petyr Baelish’s bastard. Her whole family was erased from Westeros, her home lay in smoking ruins, winter was coming and she had taken beatings and humiliations enough for a Meereenese pitfighter. Nobody could blame her if she wanted out of the game of thrones, and if that was the case, Brynden Blackfish had clearly stated that she should be left alone.

Sandor’s mind had fogged over at that, nausea rolling in his stomach. Glaring down at the two robed men, he`d concluded that if the last option turned out to be true, they had finally broken her. Clipped her wings. Or worse. He`d had whores Petyr Baelish had trained, who hadn`t? The buggering, little whoremonger owned every other brothel in King’s Landing. The wenches with the wrong kind of spirit when they came into service soon turned up with scars on their backs and the flat, broken gaze of someone not entirely in this world anymore. _That’s not something to get your cock up, now is it?_ To think his Little Bird had received the same treatment… She`d chirped prettily enough, but never seemed to know when to shut the fuck up when it counted the most.

He`d realized Elder Brother was still talking, and quickly recaptured what he`d been saying. Another bloody useful guard trick, being able to answer correctly back at your betters’ squabbling without actually have been listening at all. Gods, it had saved him from bloody going insane when Joffrey was still around.

“You`re saying I`m the best man to go and _ask_ the Lady Sansa Stark, heir to the north, possibly _Queen_ in the North, if she`s content being a bastard?” he`d rasped wryly back at Elder Brother.

The bugger had just stared gravely back at him. “Yes, my friend. Because of all the trustworthy men I can gather, you`re the only one who would actually turn around and leave her be if that were her wish, never to speak of this assignment again. Keeping her _safe._ ”

That had Sandor off his high horse in a flash. Steeling himself, he`d met Elder Brother’s unyielding gaze for a long time, the side of his mouth twitching again. Meribald had started to fidget, anxious as a fucking septa seeing naked men running down the street.

“Yes,” he`d answered at last, hoarsely, like the bloody idiot he was.

*

Rubbing Stranger’s neck, Sandor wondered if Elder Brother had steered him like he now steered the massive courser underneath him. Seeing him as a vicious weapon, impressive in its size and murderously effective if someone with experience wielded it. Had he been wielded back in that office? Somehow, he felt more like he`d been directed. For the first time in his life, he wondered if it might have been done as much for his own damned good as for the mission in question. It felt weird.

Elder Brother had flown into action. He`d provided new armour and a decent sword, which together must have cost a fortune. Warm clothes and provisions, some gold and at last more information. Meribald and Elder Brother had apparently pleaded his innocence with the leading septons of the area. Those meetings were apparently created for the main purpose of trying to stay on top of the waves of war that were crushing Westeros. One of those waves was the Hound’s ravaging of the riverlands. It turned out the two robed buggers had balls between their legs after all. Cersei’s insane decision to let the Faith have its own trials had worked to Sandor’s advantage. He would probably never be free of the black mark attached to his name, but the prize on his head was gone, and the dowager Whore Queen was no threat to him anymore, as the High Septon had crushed her control utterly. _Go fuck somebody else with that hot poker, you bloody bitch._

All in all, this should have been bloody great. He was on the broad back of Stranger, out of that buggering robe, heading for the Vale and his Little Bird, his name cleared of eating the teats of a twelve year old girl, for fuck’s sake. How in the seven hells could that turn out badly? Sandor was bad-naturedly beginning to believe in the Gods, if only because someone divine seemed to have it in for him.

Meribald, the buggering git, had presented him with his companions. Prattling like a crone about Brienne the Blasted Beauty, and how she had turned up out of nowhere seeking the Quiet Isle again. He hadn`t shut up for a second the whole way out of the marsh. Sandor had felt like someone had punched him when the Maid of Tarth had showed up that first time, bluntly asking for Sansa all those months ago. How could you be that fucking naïve in your quest for a girl half of Westeros wanted their hands on? The only thing impressive about the wench was her size, so why Elder Brother had accepted her as part of his trio, Sandor had yet to learn.

And so he had. Brienne was the most stubborn, honor bound, enormous wench he would ever meet. She could use that handsome sword of hers, no doubt about that, but she still had a slightly naïve way of seeing things. She annoyed him no end. What got him into a raving, blind rage, on the other hand, was her companion.

They followed him at a distance, after he lost it completely and shoved Ser fucking Jaime Lannister, the most arrogant and obnoxious lion of them all, up against a tree trunk. He`d roared a string of curses at Brienne for bringing a Lannister, and the fucking Kingslayer at that, to help the heir of the north out of her cage, all the while feeling Jaime’s windpipe slowly starting to crush under his iron grip. It was Meribald who finally managed to get through to him.

“Elder Brother knew this, calm down, listen to what the man`s trying to tell you.” _What the fuck do you mean calm down, you blasted barefoot imbecile!_

Wanting nothing more than to strangle Septon Meribald along with Jaime Lannister, he`d let the bugger fall to the ground. An hour later, a slightly dishevelled and quite hoarse Lion had told all that was needed to say. When Sandor thought back on it, Jaime might have looked like he had taken some hits in life before Sandor decided to toss him around a bit more. He`d surely spoken bitterly enough about finding out that Cersei had been fucking every guardsman who might come in useful, while Jaime himself had thought she was the love of his life, disgusting as that was. He`d talked tiredly of the lost honour he actually wished back, of how he suddenly couldn`t understand why he was working his arse off for the Lannisters’ sense of glory.

Tywin Lannisters’ ambitions lay in ruins with the rest of Westeros. The great Houses had paid with their best, winter was coming and the Targaryens were arising once more. “You see, Clegane,” Jaime had said, managing a cocky smile despite everything. “You`re not the only deserter here. I just left with Brienne, and let my men think what they wanted. The honour you and I apparently lack, still quietly told us enough was enough, I suppose. I need to pay some of my own and my House’s debt before the Targaryens crash down on me, and shorten me by a head.” He sounded as arrogant as ever, but it was the quietness in his green eyes that slowly convinced Sandor.

“You`re an arse, Lannister, and you don`t even have your swordhand anymore. Know in your heart that if I get so much as a bad feeling in my gut about your intentions here, we`ll see how cockily you can grin with a red smile.” _Fucking whoreson._ The whoreson himself actually looked grateful, grinning handsomely at Brienne, making her blush.

Brienne told him concisely that she`d sworn an oath to Catelyn Stark, just as Jaime had, to return Sansa in exchange for the Kingslayer’s freedom. When they found her gone, Jaime apparently had made Brienne swear to find the girl, and return her to her mother. _That`s a surprise..._ Who in the meanwhile had attended a certain wedding. And turned up undead, hanging Freys left, right and centre. “And me for oathbreaking, not having found her daughter,” she said. Dragging down her scarf, the large wench had showed him a red scar encircling her throat. “Podrick was innocent, but she hanged him too. We were cut down a moment before it was too late. Thoros of Myr whispered ‘Quiet Isle’ and something about seeing in the fires as I came back to myself. Podrick`s been left as a hostage, and I need to find Sansa.” And that was as much as Brienne would say about the matter. _Stubborn great aurochs of a woman…._

So now they were riding together through the frosted forests of the riverlands, breath misting in front of humans and animals alike. They would follow the Trident to Wickenden, getting into the Vale from Gulltown, hopefully finding someone to sell their swords to as a disguise. And Sandor felt fucking miserable. How in the seven hells would his Little Bird react to him? He`d been so drunk the last time he`d seen her that had no idea how he`d gotten himself out of King’s Landing. But the memory of being in her rooms, with her fluttering frightened underneath him, was crystal clear. Nothing to hide behind, and nowhere to hurl the shame that engulfed him like a suffocating blanket. No anger could ever burn out the frustration of knowing she would likely despise him for the rest of her life.

Just thinking about seeing her again made the chaos in him surge, sending tiny knives flying. She`d stopped chirping at him sometimes in Kings landing, calling him awful and other such… complimentary things. It had been nice in its own way, knowing she saw him differently to the rest of the buggering bastards surrounding her. Maybe she would scold him within an inch of his life for putting that dagger to her throat? Upbraiding himself for looking forward to being yelled at by a Little Bird, he instantly remembered who he`d brought along again. Fuck, no scolding. Only cold, impassive, courteous chirping. She would kill him with it, no doubt. Seeing that glazed, blank look on her face again as she looked at the Lion he`d brought would make the chaos inside him rip him to pieces. _But please, please you fucking useless Gods, if you exist at all you buggers; don`t let her fucking cry…._


	4. Planning a wedding in the Vale.

After her uncle’s sudden arrival, Sansa felt like she`d finally awoken from a long sleep. Careful to keep Alayne as a dutiful, smiling shield up against Petyr, Sansa started to gather knowledge and information, making plans for herself.

Approaching Brynden was out of the question of course, his every movement watched closely. Petyr had in his subtle way let her know this. He`d told her, voice thick with mirth, that the Blackfish had wondered if her pleasures were for sale. He`d then apparently ended up going downstairs with a serving wench. Sansa had laughed prettily for Petyr at that, trying to keep him at ease.

Not long after, however, Alayne’s father had announced that she would be wed to Harry Hardyng. Lady Waynwood had agreed, and Harry was sufficiently pleased with her beauty and dowry to take her. “Alayne, my sweet, you will be pleased to know that Harry is coming here to better get to know you. I`m sure you will be thrilled by a marriage to such a handsome knight, and of course, when the time is right, he will love you even more when we tell him of your other… claims.”

That was as much Petyr would say about Winterfell or the north. The whole thing reeked of schemes within schemes. Why in the Maiden’s name would Petyr rush a wedding to Harry the Heir, when they couldn`t reveal her as the heir to the north? A marriage to Sansa Stark would be a tremendous political move to combine the strength of the Vale of Arryn to the possible Queen in the North. But marrying away Alayne the Bastard to the would-be heir to the Vale once Robert Arryn died… would firstly be fraud, given the fact that Sansa was already married and Alayne didn`t actually exist. _It does not exist._ Now, why would that make her think of kissing the Hound? Pushing the irrelevant thought away, she could only conclude that Petyr had changed tactics.

The only plot that would make sense was that Petyr Baelish wanted her safely tied down by marriage, preferably to a stupid git like Harry the Heir, himself continuing to control the Vale until Robert died, and when the whole thing passed to Harry...? Somehow Sansa could not see Littlefinger gracefully stepping aside from his mighty station of power as Lord Protector of the Vale. Giving it that up to a lout who would do little more than joust, gamble and wench, and be too stupid to rule or see any political or economical opportunity that presented itself.

So, forced once again to see herself sold for practical purposes, Sansa coldly suspected that Harry the Heir would meet with an… ah… unfortunate hunting accident, and Petyr Baelish would mercifully step forwards to continue to take responsibility for the Vale.

Then, Sansa Stark would have to be revealed, and her marriage to the Imp annulled. She also realized morbidly that this time, Petyr himself as the Lord of Harrenhal, the Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Vale, would be the one to be the strong, political match. She shuddered, nausea threatening to make her retch, as images of their marriage bed came to mind. The minty taste of his tongue in her mouth, his manhood inside her, as he gasped her mother’s name.

Alayne the Bastard’s wedding would have been a quiet affair; Harry the Heirs wedding was expected to be so much more. He even demanded a tournament! Petyr laughed out loud when he heard, jingling his money pouch. “Ah, how expensive beautiful daughters turn out to be!”

Winter was undoubtedly coming, Petyr pressed, and it was usual to hasten the process when the rest of the mountain passes could be filled with snow not long from now and winter-storms would make the sea treacherous. The betrothal-feast would be held a month from now, the tournament a week later, and the wedding the day after that. Petyr had sniggered when he received word of who would participate in the joust. Nobody of any importance had bothered showing up. “I tried to warn him, with winter on our doorstep, the land scorched by war, and Robert Arryn still alive, that this unimportant wedding wouldn`t be worth the tournament costs, but alas, Harry was always the vain fool.”

Randa and Mya had silently watched how she took the betrothal, neither of them harbouring high opinions of Harry in any way. She`d actually let herself cry in Randa’s arms, hating the devastating feeling of being trapped, sold again, and that the worst was yet to come.

*****

At the betrothal-feast, Harry and his entourage filled the Gates of Moon to bursting. Alayne, baseborn and worth no respect, had to endure endless groping, fondling and drunken kisses from her husband-to-be. Afterwards, the three girls had retreated to Randa’s apartments where they had gotten quite severely drunk, cursing the world of useless men. Waking up early the next morning, Sansa could all too well understand why the Hound had been so grumpy all the time, and later that day, Randa looked strangely at her, excusing herself quickly before hurrying away. Sansa felt anxiety fill her stomach to a shivering ball, threatening to make her sick. What had she said and done to make the otherwise lively and tolerant lady try to avoid her? Mya was nowhere to be found, either. Her memories from last night a bit hazy, Sansa cursed herself for letting her guard down.

But Mya showed up later that day. She hugged Sansa wordlessly, and bid her follow. Sansa tried to ask her where they were going, but Mya just smiled and said it was a surprise she thought Alayne would like. They went down the hidden servants’ staircase, winding its way behind the walls, all the way down to the crypts. Sansa felt stunned, it reminded her so sorely of Winterfell. She`d always hated the crypts there, with the old kings and lords staring accusingly down at anyone disturbing their peace, but now she missed their stern faces, realizing with a pang in her chest that her real father was with them now. Deep down under the Gates of the Moon, passing through chambers filled with tombs of countless of Arryns, sleeping their dreamless sleep inside, she felt a quiet respect for the dead that had lived and ruled this strangely beautiful part of Westeros.

She started asking Mya about the first rulers of the Vale, but got shushed. Mya was counting her way past hallways leading to even older parts of the crypts. Then they turned into a narrow, darkened corridor. Sansa looked sideways at Mya, despising herself for the doubt and mistrust slowly spreading in her stomach. Telling herself that she had to trust somebody, or she would end up as paranoid as Cersei, she continued walking. Mya had said she would like the surprise, and she was her friend after all. _What do I know about friendship? I`m not even the person I pretend to be._ She walked with Mya, gut sinking, around a bend in the corridor, which at last ended in a new wide chamber.

Where people waited in the shadows. Sansa’s brain felt fogged, her breath caught in her throat, seeing Randa talking softly to a man with his back towards the hallway, hearing the jingle of armoured men. _An ambush? But why? Do they know who I am? Randa, Mya, how could you?_ The betrayal stung like a slap in the face, her own idiocy like a punch, she`d walked into this trap like a sheep to slaughter. Knowing it was useless to run, her body continued to walk forward, falling into the most graceful step she knew, head held high. _I will at least honour my father’s memory._ Careful to keep her face icily serene, her heart was beating hard in her chest, sending a rush to her head as her mind worked furiously, trying to calculate her chances of getting out of this again.

Gliding into the chamber she let her eyes slide quickly over it, taking a closer look at her enemies. And then she saw him, leaning against a pillar. Arms crossed over his broad chest, and lightly armoured in a brigandine of boiled leather sewn with steel disks, supplied with greaves, gorget, pauldron and poleyns. _Where is his old armour?_ Grey eyes scanned the chamber, missing nothing. When he saw her walking out of the hallway with Mya, his eyes met hers. He pushed himself away from the pillar, standing tall and impressive, and relief started pounding through Sansa’s body. _I could keep you safe, no one would hurt you again, or I`d kill them._

The sentence released such a powerful feeling of devotion that Sansa felt her vision shrink. Locking her gaze to those hard, grey eyes she continued walking towards him, away from Mya. Not letting herself pause, or think, she stretched her arms up around his neck, and hugged him fiercely. “Sandor,” was all she said. _It`s his name, after all, he won`t be called ser or lord…_ For a heartbeat he froze surprised, before she felt him yield, and strong arms engulfed her in an embrace, crushing her towards him.

“Well met, Little Bird,” he said gruffly into her hair.

They held on to one another a moment too long, and when she let go, she felt his hands leave her long hair, hanging loose to the waist. She turned around towards the others, feeling almost giddy. “Gods, you gave me a fright!” she said, laughing. “Mya, you bastard!”

Mya laughed out in return “Well, as I`m the only bastard left here, I suppose you`re right!” That shut her up.

Randa approached, suddenly looking embarrassed. She even curtsied. “I apologize if I have behaved out of place with you, Lady Sansa, and for my distance with you earlier today. I honestly didn`t know who you were, and when told, I was forbidden to speak to you about this.” Sansa felt strange being addressed as a lady again, and sad for the distance in Randa’s eyes.

“Come now, Randa, this is ridiculous! I cried in your arms and drunkenly sang ‘The bear and the maiden fair’ with you only yesterday.” That certainly produced laughs around the chamber. She heard the Hound’s snort of amusement behind her. “You may call me Sansa, and if you ever look at me with such reverence again without a formal occasion to demand it, I will slap you across the face!” She smiled, “And that goes for you too, Mya.”

Randa dropped all pretence, and for the first time Sansa properly looked at the assembled people. Brynden Blackfish was grinning widely at her, Bronze Yohn stood to Randa and Mya’s left, and at Sansa’s right two knights waited patiently. The Hound still stood rooted, guard-like, behind her. She turned and smiled up at him, _Seven save me, he`s tall,_ receiving an amused glint in his eyes and wry twitch of his mouth in return. “You came back for me,” she said quietly, feeling a blush start to blossom in her cheeks.

Her uncle Blackfish flicked a puzzled gaze between them, before taking a step forward. “I am sorry to have frightened you, Sansa, but we have taken great pains for this meeting to happen. I`ve spent the last month misplacing Littlefinger’s eyes and ears. I`m quite a slippery fish in a pond I know well, and their frustration at never knowing when I might disappear has been entertaining. That being said, I have only a short time before I need to resurface. We need to plan further actions in haste, I`m afraid.” Brynden smiled, the deep lines in his windburnt face somehow adding a craggy sort of handsomeness.

Bronze Yohn bowed at her. “Littlefinger thinks I`m arranging the tournament in honour of your upcoming marriage right now.” Sansa felt the Hound stiffen to her right. “So I`ll proceed with the details. Your uncle has arranged this meeting, so my lady could choose if she wanted to continue this charade, and maybe have a chance at a more quiet life away from the game of thrones,” Bronze Yohn paused as the Hound moved to her side, “but as you have already taken your real name back, and actually… um… embraced… your rescuers, I take it you wish for a way out of this?”

“Yes, you are quite right, my lord.” Sansa said, slipping into proper lady behaviour once again, raising her chin, and shifting her pose like her septa taught her. “I`m afraid I will never be free of the game, but I at least wish to be one of the players instead of a pawn.” Bronze Yohn gave her a searching look, twitched his bushy brows and bowed low in acknowledgement.

“You will be glad to know then, that the Lords Declarant all support you and offer you their loyalties, my lady,” he said, an assuring levelness in his light grey eyes. But instead Sansa felt panic start to tighten in her chest.

“My lord needs to know that Lyn Corbray is Petyr’s man: if he knows about this then Petyr does too,” she said, proud that her voice held ice instead of fear, her posture not changing an inch, even though the Hound shifted slightly beside her. Bronze Yohn smiled at her, wry and respectful at the same time.

“Yes, the other Lords Declarant realized as much after his show of baring steel in our meeting with Littlefinger. We kept the man in our circle, of course, as a spy revealed can be used to feed wrong information back to his master, keeping Baelish in the dark about this meeting for instance.” Sansa felt lightheaded with relief for a moment, secretly enjoying that Petyr could be fooled, too, before returning her attention to the matter at hand.

“Why support me when you didn`t come to my brother’s aid in the War of the Five Kings, my lord?” she asked the mighty Lord of Runestone. “Why not support Harry’s marriage to me instead?” Bronze Yohn’s smile was definitely wry this time.

“Harry Hardyng was knighted by me in an attempt to raise his standards, as he was our only option to regain power from Littlefinger. It seems unlikely that Robert Arryn will live beyond his next nameday, so our hopes still rest on Harry inheriting the Vale. But believe me he will not be allowed power until we have forced some sense into him, my lady.” He looked kindly at Sansa before continuing, “You would have been wasted on Harry, Lady Sansa. Your house was meant to rule the north for thousands of years to come: the Vale will support that and hopefully gain an even stronger alliance to the north by helping you to reclaim Winterfell. I cannot express my grief for the loss of your family, my lady, but I can tell you how the lords of the Vale pleaded with Lysa Arryn to let us fight the Lannisters side by side with the Young Wolf. I even courted the woman to try to convince her of the need to defend Riverrun against the Lions,” he seemed to shake his head at Lysa’s insane refusal to support her nephew’s protection of her old House.

Sansa looked at the great lord in front of her and felt a deep confidence in his words and the distinct feeling that he was telling her this truthfully. If she was right, the Lords Declarants loyalty was hers along with her uncle’s, the Blackfish’s high status in the Vale and riverlands alike being a great advantage.

“You visited Winterfell when you went north with your son, Ser Waymar,” she said quietly to Bronze Yohn, “He was on his way to the Wall and you stayed for two days. I saw you in King’s Landing with your two other sons, too, at the Hand’s tourney. I have been half expecting you to recognize me for a while.” Bronze Yohn looked levelly at her.

“I thought you reminded me of someone when you first came, but you`ve been playing Alayne the bastard well. So well in fact that I did not know I had my lady’s niece walking around in my midst. Please forgive me.”

Sansa stood breathing in the musty air of the crypt and dared herself to think of being able to return home for true, even with all the challenges bound to face her. She looked sideways up at the Hound, standing taller than any of them, making even Yohn Royce seem average in height and width, his grey eyes hard and observing and apparently guarding her already. Giving the Hound a shy smile, meeting his eyes without fear, Sansa thought life suddenly had taken quite a turn for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)


	5. A slightly different stag party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

The musty smell of the crypt, its rough walls and flickering torchlight, didn`t seemed frightening at all anymore. Sansa felt safe and excited, the faint hope from Brynden Tully’s arrival suddenly blossoming into the promise of action. The Hound’s reassuring presence felt like a warm blanket around her shoulders, giving her hope for her secret plans. _I`ve missed you._

The Lord of Runestone looked at Sansa, his lined face showing a new respect, before he continued with the introductions of her rescuers. “You clearly know Sandor Clegane, my lady.” His bushy eyebrows rose. “I must admit I thought you a strange choice, Hound, but it seems your name has been cleared of a lot of atrocities of late…” Bronze Yohn managed to sound perfectly polite and doubious at the same time. Clegane stared flatly at him.

“Don`t believe every tale your wet-nurse tells you, ser. Unfortunately for me, every fucking peasant does. The Hound is dead, and I can`t wait to find the bugger who wears my helmet,” he rasped irritably.

Bronze Yohn shrugged, and addressed Sansa again. “As for the other two, may I present Lady Brienne of Tarth and…” He didn`t get any further. Sansa felt her insides turn to ice, looking closely at the knight on Sandor’s right.

“You!” she whispered, holding on to her courtesy by a fingernail. Straightening to her full height, she walked slowly over to the man with the golden hair. “How could you approve of sending a Lannister to my aid, uncle?” Her voice sounded cold and clear in her own ears, pronouncing the name like a curse. Brynden smiled wryly at her.

“Believe me, this is not my work. I trusted a friend to find the best men for this task.”

She felt a deep, calm hate frost her vision as she looked Jaime Lannister straight in the face. He stared boldly back at her, smiling slightly. “Ah… my lady. As for me being here, you might have forgotten that you`re married to my brother and, alas, are a Lannister yourself. I`m quite upset, actually, that you seem to be planning to marry a handsome, young knight in his stead.”

Sansa felt fury build like an avalanche waiting to break free. “I will _never_ be a Lannister. I was married away like a dishonourable prize, a political move by your father.” She almost sneered at him. “The marriage was never consummated, it`s invalid, and I will seek to have it annulled as soon as I can. The only thanks I will ever owe any of you, are to Tyrion, for his kindness, such as it was.”

Jaime paled, shook his head and continued ruefully. “Tyrion just never stops surprising me.” He grinned wryly at her. ”The thing is, my lady, I swore an oath to your late lady mother never to raise arms against her family again. I also swore to return you in exchange for my freedom.” He stood at ease, explaining himself as if he were telling a funny story about a nice hunt. “The last time I saw Brynden Blackfish was on the drawbridge of Riverrun, getting quite the scolding for my lack of honour, but in my defence, I did manage to take Riverrun without raising arms, and I treated Edmure Tully as fairly as I could at that point.” Despite his easy tone, there was a tightness to his shoulders and a strained look in his emerald green eyes. “My horse’s name is Honour, but even if that can be interpreted as if I already have it, I`m trying hard to actually gain some for true before it`s too late.” His smile turned impudent. Sansa met his gaze frostily.

“My mother is dead, my father is dead, my siblings are dead or disappeared. _You_ sired Joffrey. You butchered my father’s men, you warred against my brother Robb, you gave Riverrun to a _Frey._ You are a Lannister. Why should I let you live at all?” The cheeky slid off Jaime’s face, leaving him looking tired, rough around the edges. He averted his gaze and rubbed his neck.

Brynden Tully looked stonily at the Kingslayer. “My old friend wrote of change, of the need for peace, and a man’s chance to do better in life. I trust his judgment, but if I discover that was a mistake, the rest of my life will be spent making you pay.”

Jaime snorted. “You will have to wait your turn. Clegane has already promised me a red smile, and I thought he and I got along!” Sansa glanced at Sandor, who refused to shift his gaze from the Lion.

“And how do you plan on paying your family’s blood-dept to mine?” she asked Jaime, denying him any titles. The knight raised his still-handsome face - looking a bit scruffier didn`t make him ugly at all, just diminished the resemblance to Cersei.

“I can`t,” he said simply, sounding hoarse, and to her utter astonishment, went down on his knees in front of her. “You being Stark or Lannister, it doesn`t matter. I came here because I`m trying to right some of my wrongs. Clegane isn`t the only one who suddenly couldn`t remember why he was fighting for Lannister glory.” The bitterness in his voice was brutal. “I understand that you don`t trust me, so I suppose I`ll settle for proving myself to you. For all it`s worth, my sword is yours.” He flung it at her feet with his left hand, somehow managing to look arrogant on his knees, green eyes never leaving hers. _Left hand._

“You _lost_ your swordhand, Ser Jaime,” she reminded him coldly. Jaime Lannister’s laugh sounded hollow, and he removed the gauntlet on his right, revealing the golden hand within.

“Lost my hand. Like everything else dear to me.” He smiled a shadow of his once-cocky smile up at her. “You see, life`s not always sunny, but winter is coming, isn`t it, Stark? And somewhere along the way, I found out what was important and what was not.” She looked long and hard at him, trying to see into his mind through his emerald eyes.

“I accept your oath of fealty, ser,” she said at last. “You will get a clean start, and I will refrain from mentioning your past again. But if you _ever_ put so much as a toe out of line with me in the matter of loyalty… I will make Clegane hold you down, and take your head _myself._ ” She was leaning forwards by the end of the sentence, voice low and clear like a pond beneath a glacier. She watched her words sink into Jaime’s eyes before she straightened.

The chamber was dead quiet. Sandor Clegane was looking at her like he`d never seen her before, and she could see a vein pulse on the side of his neck. Slowly she turned to the knight – no, woman - who stood fingering a strap on her armour. “Brienne of Tarth, I thank you for your wish to serve the north,” sansa said, smiling as sweetly as she could. Brienne made a half-bow, half-curtsey, her armour jingling.

“At long last I`ve fulfilled my oath,” she said, relief so strong in her voice, her surprisingly beautiful blue eyes so honest, it made Sansa want to weep over her own lost innocence.

Sansa forced a smile, and turned once again, this time fully towards the Hound - _No, Sandor. He said the Hound was dead._ \- and saw him properly for the first time with more mature eyes. _Gods, his body`s magnificent!_ Her eyes reached his face. The scars would never be better and he would never be pretty, but somehow he looked healthier. Straight, black hair was falling into his eyes and onto his shoulders, but it actually looked like it had been cut during the last few months. And even if he didn`t carry an ounce of fat, some of the gauntness in his face had filled out. _Have you finally learned to take care of yourself?_ The biggest difference was in his eyes, though. Hard, slate grey eyes regarded her with guarded interest as she approached him, but the frightening rage had left them.

Standing before him, craning her neck to meet his eyes, to look at him, like she never had dared to in King’s Landing, she felt her title fade. Being just Sansa, feeling her insides churn with anxiety and joy. “I trust you,” she said simply, and her hand rose to cup his cheek, as it had done so long ago in a room filled with the green light of wildfire. The fearsome warrior stood frozen under her touch, shame and something else creeping into his eyes. _He remembers._ She felt herself starting to blush _again._ Letting her hand drop, she addressed Brynden. “What has been planned from now on, uncle?”

The Blackfish cleared his throat. “You`ll have to wait to depart until after the tournament. Then we can hide you in the mass of people not invited to the wedding. I`ll make sure the right guards man the gates. After that it`s up to you.”

Bronze Yohn shifted slightly. “You don`t need me for this. I`ve made my own support clear, and that of the other Lords Declarant. Anya Waynwood will deal with Harry when he finds out the wedding was a fraud. Petyr will be blamed, don`t you worry, Lady Stark. Now I need to be seen doing what I`m supposed to be doing.”

Sansa looked at him. “Thank you,” she said, heartfelt. Bronze Yohn smiled.   
“For the north,” he said, raising his large, gnarled fist in the air, before he turned and left.

“Al… Sansa, Mya and I should leave too,” Randa said.

Sansa shook her head. “No, we need to come up together, laughing after having a good time. The best lies are the ones closest to the truth. We`ve been to the crypt, and you`ve shown me the tombs of the first Arryns. Which is exactly what we`ll do on our way out. That way we`ll tell the truth if questioned about it. But you don`t need to listen to my plans. Wait in the hallway if you like.”

Brynden, her motley rescuers, and herself went quickly through what she already had planned if the chance ever presented itself. She needed to reclaim Winterfell, and she needed money to rebuild it. Jaime’s crestfallen face, when she told him how she would get the funds, pleased her mightily.

“I am Lady Lannister in name, as you so proudly informed me earlier. You are of the Kingsguard, having forsaken your claim to Casterly Rock. Tyrion is already Lord there, if he`s still alive. That gives me the right either as his wife or as his widow to claim gold from your vaults, a price on my head or not.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I`m quite sure you`ll be delighted to start paying your House’s debt in this way.”

Jaime smiled back wryly. “You`re a cold woman, do you know that?”   
Sansa broadened her smile. “I am as you Lannisters made me,” she murmured.

The Blackfish agreed with her thoughts about Stannis, rumours having flown south on dark wings, telling nightmarish stories about how King Stannis had taken Winterfell from the Boltons at great cost. Arya Bolton had turned out to be some other girl, not surprisingly in Sansa's opinion. Wyman Manderly was dead, but his White Harbour men had managed to open the gates from within, roaring _the north remembers_ as they turned and descended on the remaining Freys. Roose and Ramsay Bolton had tasted their own remedy, being flayed alive and hanged from the battlements, their skin fluttering pinkly beside them in the cold winds of winter.

Stannis was the rightful heir to the throne left by Robert Baratheon, but with more and more insistent rumours from across the Narrow Sea, telling tales of not only one but two Targaryens mustering armies, and having dragons at that… Sansa could not swear fealty to Stannis. Privately thinking King’s Landing would fall the instant a Targaryen army blew fire on its gates made her quite confident that the Lannister rule would soon be at an end. And with that, the need for a queen in the north would die. Robb had been crowned after their father’s execution at Lannister hands. Westeros needed peace to live through winter, and Sansa was needed as the Stark in Winterfell.

The disturbing rumours from the Wall, concerned her too. The Lord Commander was dead. He`d deserted with his wildlings. He`d turned into a living corps. It was impossible to know what had happened to the brother she had scorned as a bastard for so many years. After living the bastard life herself, she felt she owed Jon an apology. The only thing that seemed sure was that Lord Commander Snow had made some sort of treaty with King Stannis, and let the Wildlings through the Wall, but unnerving whisperings of _dead things_ moving, made Sansa think of Old Nan’s stories from when she was a child, and the quiet way the old woman had insisted they were true.

All in all she needed to reach Winterfell and her bannermen with Lannister funds, re-establish the north, seek out what had actually happened at the Wall and find a way to get food supplies reaching the north from across the Narrow Sea. _Gods be good, this will be a challenge._ She`d received such a thorough education from Petyr that she felt capable of finding solutions to the massive assignment she was taking on, however. But bitter experience had taught her that competence wasn`t always enough. _Winter is coming._

Petyr would soon find himself in hot water. The Houses Mallister, Rygers and Paege had already assured the Blackfish that a Frey would not hold Riverrun for long. Sansa felt like the ghosts of her dead family stood in the crypt with her, their bannermen’s loyalty treasured after so long on her own. Then Brienne had hesitantly added the horrible story of her mother’s death, and the arising of Lady Stoneheart. Sansa felt her deeply buried sorrow surge, rolling nausea and blinding pain for the morbid way her undead mother had turned into a monster. It threatened to overwhelm her completely, so she shut it out, burying it deeply beneath her lost childhood, turning her back to the ghosts around her.

Concentrating hard on the task at hand she swallowed her tears, storing them for a time when she could afford to shed them. First of all, she needed to get out of the Vale. Brynden gave her a quiet look. “You will do well, Sansa. I need to go, don`t contact me in any way until you hear word of how Littlefinger has been brought down. After that we`ll gather our strength and give you our service.” He clapped her on her shoulder awkwardly. “For the north,” he said calmly, bowing to her, and then he was gone.

Drawing a breath she didn`t know she had held, Sansa looked at her three rescuers. “Where will you be staying until the tournament?” she asked.   
“We`re hired as guards on a merchant train, sleeping sweet and tight under a wagon when we`re not on duty,” Sandor rasped down at her, his lips twitching into a wry smile again.

“I`m sorry I cannot give you better arrangements,” Sansa said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“Ah, not to worry, my lady,” Jaime smiled ruefully. “Sleeping rough will be the least of our problems on this journey.”

They departed after planning how and when Sansa should meet up with them after the tournament feast. They would have no contact until then, and they would not speak further of any plans at all, before they were out of the Vale. Jaime pressed the need for keeping Littlefinger in the dark, making Sandor slap him in the back of his head, pointing at her.

“Lannister, are you blind? You`ve already witnessed the girl being a bastard, Sansa Stark and the fucking Lady of Winterfell, all in the last hour. I think she can cope with Baelish,” he rasped irritably at the lion. Sansa felt both proud of the confidence he put in her, but also worried. _Am I just playing all these roles, living a lie? Is this another way of chirping? No. This is playing the game of thrones to survive!_

Randa, Mya and Sansa were halfway up the stairs when Randa blurted in a whisper, “You sneaky little minx! You have cheated us for so much juicy pillow talk! Don`t tell me nothing ever happened between you and the Hound! One of Westeros’s most ferocious warriors let you _pat him!_ ”

Mya laughed out huskily, and Sansa couldn`t help but laugh with her. “We might lose you soon, sweetling," the long-legged girl added, "but this is actually a pillow talk I will enjoy mightily. No wonder you`ve never found the men interesting here, not a one was savage or scarred enough for you!”


	6. Tournament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

“Really, One Paw?” Sandor rasped, looking at the training ground where armoured men were warming up their bodies for the melee. “You want to unleash me on this?”

Jaime snorted. “We`ll need the money, you need to let off some steam, and our pretty little charge loves tournaments. Surely you can clear that field for her?” The Lion smirked. “Gods, Clegane, what in the Maiden’s teats did you do for her in Kings Landing to make her _trust_ you like that?”

Sandor shrugged, careful not to let the feeling of warmth in his chest show. “Didn`t beat her bloody like our precious, knightly brothers of the Kingsguard, I suppose.”

Truth to be told he`d expected her to either balk at him being there at all, as she had with Jaime, or be too frightened to argue. Instead she had _hugged_ him, seemingly pleased to look upon his ugly face again. What in the seven hells was that about? With that ice-cold grace of hers, he`d expected a chilled slap at least. He`d completely lost it, hugging her back like an idiot. Absorbed in how utterly beautiful she looked despite her brown hair, he`d wrapped his arms around her, and fully felt her woman’s body pressed against him. Fucking hells.

The blasted lion was studying him, arms on the fence to the training ground. Meeting Jaime’s gaze levelly he continued. “I don`t know why she acted like she did. Women are crazy. I was set to guard her, escorting her places, you know. Mostly because that rabid little bastard of yours thought I would frighten her shitless. Which I did, by the way. She couldn`t even look me in the face unless her life depended on it.” The last part came out all too bitterly and he knew it. Cursing himself for a fool, he went back to studying his competitors.

“Bugger me, this is a sorry lot. Did every capable fighter die or lose their hands during this war? Not that I mind beating up snot-nosed lordlings, hedgeknights and pitchforks-wielding swineherds, but it may not be entirely fair fighting,” Sandor said, changing the subject.

Jaime grinned, taking a new look at the men in the arena. “How noble of you to consider your opponents’ lack of competence. I`m starting to believe this Elder Brother had your teeth buried along with the Hound. It`s a melee, for Gods’ sake. If they`re afraid of getting a beating, they shouldn’t have signed up.”

Sandor glared at him. “Didn`t say I would be fucking gentle, now did I?”

Jaime didn`t look at him, but smiled slightly, looking every inch the noble at ease. _Arrogant cock._ “No, but… when did _you_ get a conscience? Not necessarily a bad thing, you know, just not used to it. And be aware of swineherds, got to be dangerous people. After all, King Robert was killed by one of their charges.”

Brienne sullenly helped him into full armour a short while later, muttering under her breath that _she_ liked to fight in melees too. The large wench was not too bad a traveling companion, even if she was frustratingly naïve sometimes. She never complained, for instance, and did her share of the work without having to be asked. He just wondered if she was as stupid as she seemed from time to time. Or if she had deliberately distanced herself from other people a bit, being nothing of what people expected of a lady.

The woman was nothing if not ugly, the scarring on her cheek, her strength and muscular body not helping her. Creating distance between yourself and a world that didn`t want you, was something Sandor had no problem relating to. So he ended up patiently telling her that if she didn`t fucking shut up about it, he would take her on in single combat and beat her bloody. “Think you can beat me in a melee, wench? Yes, Jaime! I _know_ her name! Well, do you?” he rasped.

Brienne lowered startlingly blue eyes to the pin she was fastening. “No,” she said quietly.

“Then what are you bloody complaining about?”

The melee was fought on foot, unfortunately, Stranger being a brutal weapon, but Sandor didn`t mind overly much. He was listed under a false name, but still radiated enough danger to make the other fighters hold a wide berth around him as they waited for the signal for the game to begin. He had warmed up without showing off his fighting skills, enjoying how nervous he made some of the shivering buggers out there. _You don`t know what I`m capable of_ His leg had healed completely a long time ago and only ached if he was excessively tired. And sparring with Jaime and Brienne on the journey here had honed his technique once more.

Standing there before the gates into the arena, hearing the spectators roar their exitement, with explosive energy starting to pulse through his entire body, he grinned, knowing full well how frightening he looked, and felt truly alive for the first time since before Quiet Isle. When the man at the gate started pulling his fingers down, he shut his visor with a clang, rolled his heavy shoulders and broke into a run. _I`ll clear this fucking field for her, Jaime, don`t you worry._

 

 

Sansa was dressed as prettily as a highborn bastard could be. Gretchel had fussed with her hair, brushing it until it gleamed, and plaited silken ties into it, leaving one hanging loose so she would have a favour to give to Harry. Oh, she would have _loved_ this when she had first arrived at King’s Landing. Now, all she could think about was how Harry would certainly want a kiss and a fondle along with the favour, leering weasel, and she would have to oblige gracefully, lulling Littlefinger into believing she dutifully maintained the plan.

She was getting increasingly nervous about tonight. She knew what to do, and it was no use fretting about it. It was more important to keep her pulse low and have a splendid evening before setting the real plan into action. If Petyr only knew how well he`d trained her…

Mya and Randa had to be protected, firstly by not having anything to do with her disappearance later this evening. Randa had ensured her that her lord father, Nestor Royce, had everything under control after that. Sansa prayed that she was right. She knew she had to get out of the Vale now, or be meshed into Petyr’s schemes beyond rescue. Even so, it was hard to leave the two people who had been the best friends of her life.  
So she had let them in, told them about herself and pillow-talked truthfully. Sitting in Randa’s large bed, sipping wine, she had told them that all Sandor had really done was try to protect her from torment, from herself, and showed her rough kindness where nobody else cared or dared. She didn`t tell them of his broken state, but she did tell about how he`d finally stolen a song and a kiss. A bit disappointed he hadn`t taken her maidenhead or despoiled her in any way, they wanted details about the kiss. Sansa tried as best she could, but the whole kiss was difficult to remember now. _That`s strange. The rest of that night stands out like a torch._

“Are you in love with him, face and all?” Randa asked.

Sansa laughed. “I don`t know,” she said, suddenly feeling shy. “I guess Harry is the handsome one, but that doesn`t matter as much to me anymore. Joffrey was handsome as well, but he was a monster…”

Mya snorted. “Harry’s face is more handsome than your scarred friend, yes, but he`s an ass, and did you see Clegane’s body?” She directed this last at Randa. Sansa quietly refrained from telling them that Sandor could be a real ass too.

Randa and Mya launched into a quite appreciative conversation, describing Sandor’s muscular body in comprehensive detail. Based on what they had seen with armour and clothes on, of course, but Randa seemed to think that a minor obstacle, armour being so easily removed. Sansa laughed along, enjoying having the girls for once discuss a man she actually cared about. _What would he say if he found out that Mya wondered if he could throw a drafthorse with those delicious arms and shoulders of his?_ Randa added several thoughts about a man that size, and Sansa giggled helplessly, knowing that this could very well be the last time she laughed with them over such matters.

Now they were dressed in their finest, sitting side by side in the pavilion reserved for the Vales more highborn inhabitants. “And their friends,” Randa added, patting Mya’s knee. Alayne had her father on her other side, smiling pleasantly and discussing something in a low voice with Ser Marwyn Belmore, Captain of Guards, who had joined them briefly.

The joust was soon to end. Harry, having slobbered all over her and squeezed her breast before cantering off with her ribbon tied to his rerebrace, had made it to the final six before Bronze Yohn unhorsed him so severely he had to be carried out of the lists. Sansa tried to look worried, keeping the glee out of her eyes. She was also happy to see that neither of her companions from the crypt had lost their heads and joined the lists. In the end Bronze Yohn, in his famous armour, cantered victorious down the track after defeating his own son, Ser Andar. Crowning an astonished, headshaking and laughing Mya Stone as Queen of Love and Beauty, making Ser Lothor scowl behind Petyr.

It was time for refreshments and walking some warmth back into their bodies. Hot meat pies were served around the arena as the lists were taken down. Splintered wood was removed and the frosted ground smoothened, a mixture of sand and gravel strewn to prevent it from being slippery. When the arena finally was ready for the melee, the audience had gained new vigour, shouting at the tops of their voices for the melee to begin. Sansa had always been most interested in the jousting, thinking it gallant and noble, but had to admit the mode of this tournament made her head light and exited. She tried to imagine how it would be, fighting to the last man standing, and felt a rush of adrenaline.

The spectators’ shouts reached a wordless roar when the gates opened, and the melee fighters rushed into the arena. Sansa found Mya’s hand, and screamed with her two friends as a large knight went into the fight with the ferocity of a wild animal. Descending on his opponents like an avalanche, too quick to run from, his sword a blur, using his shield to hack and ram into anyone not out of his way. His body moved with surprising speed and aggression, sidestepping blows, not waiting for an opponent to hit the ground before moving onto the next. Using his weight and raw strength behind every thrust and punch, ducking and dodging attacks, he swiftly cleared the area around him of competitors. The man whirled his sword in his gauntleted hand, before slamming himself into another group of fighting men. Without losing speed, he slipped under a sword thrust, making the man behind him go down with his shield crashing into the side of the man’s breastplate. And rapidly turned to parry a thrust from the left, continuing to move fluidly, hit, strike and parry, lightning-quick and with a brutality none of his opponents could match.

Sansa had only seen one man fight like that, and she was starting to fully understand exactly how lethal he would be in actual battle. Bending low and cupping Mya’s ear over the noise from the spectators, she whispered, “That’s Sandor.”

Mya turned dark blue eyes on her, surprised. No need to ask who _that_ was. Even if melees were supposed to be every man for himself, they were starting to form ranks against Sandor down there, trying to cooperate to get him down. Sansa found herself screaming at the top of her lungs with everybody else, no septa in the world could make her shut her mouth. Sandor suddenly pivoted away from the bravest of his stalkers and smashed his full weight into the man approaching him from the left, making the man crash into his newfound brother in arms at his right, creating a tangle. Turning back he ducked under the sword-thrust directed at him, and kicked the legs out from under the man, grabbed his gorget and _threw_ him at the three men trying to come at him from the left. Two went down, while the third jumped aside, continuing forwards a notch more hesitantly.

There were now four men circling him warily. He feinted at one of them, and the man jumped backwards, making Sandor threw his head back, obviously laughing. The man behind him tried to use that to come at him, which triggered the final, ridiculously fast wave of violence. Sansa had trouble seeing exactly what happened, but somehow the man’s sword got pinned under Sandor’s shield, and flew out of his hand, while its owner clutched at a breastplate suddenly bent entirely the wrong way. The men behind tried to close in and received several blows in rapid succession crumbling to the ground. The fourth bolted before he was grabbed from behind and lifted off his feet to end up with Sandor’s sword pointing at his windpipe. Hanging there he trew his sword away, lifting his hands in submission, and Sandor flung him in the dirt.

Looking around at the total devastation he`d made of the fighting ground, he turned to the pavilion and bowed. The sound from the audience was deafening, reminding Sansa about how Sandor had won the Hand’s tourney in King’s Landing, winning the adoration of the commons for the first time in his life. Sansa found herself standing, clutching Mya’s hand, screaming in a most unladylike manner. Her heart tried to beat itself out of her chest, and she felt drunk on pride for the lone man standing in the tourney ground. Straightening up, breathing hard, he thrust his gauntleted fist in the air, at her, just as Bronze Yohn had done. _For the north._


	7. Meeting up with the motley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Petyr was applauding cheerfully beside Sansa, and as the spectators started to rise he turned towards her, putting a hand on her thigh. “Now, that was an interesting melee, Alayne. Even a sweet and kind girl like you got carried away.” Stroking her thigh uncomfortably near her ladyparts, he smiled at her, green-grey eyes twinkling. “Maybe we should invite the man into my service? Such superior fighting qualities should be put to use, wouldn`t you say, my dear?”

Sansa felt her stomach lurch, smiling brightly back at Alayne’s well-dressed father. “Well yes, maybe we should,” she said, smilingly trying to manipulate Petyr away from any notions of asking questions about the melee champion, deciding on the bold solution. _The best lies are the ones closest to the truth._ “But… you know, father, such a savage fighter reminds me of those horrible stories of The Mountain and The Hound… Could we ever trust such a creature completely? The Mad Dog of Saltpans is _still_ referred to as the Lannister Dog, you know. It would be terrible to have your name sullied through the actions of a brute without brains, wouldn`t it? After all, we`re entering a pretty delicate political period now… ”

For a second she wondered if she`d taken it a step too far. But then Petyr furrowed his brows, thoughtfully studying the gate were the melee champion had left the arena. “You might be right, my darling Alayne. He actually reminded me too of The Hound… But that rabid dog is still raiding the Riverlands, all my reports say…” Eyes clearing, he smiled once again, giving her thigh a squeeze, his small fingers touching her mound through her dress. Sansa felt sick, Petyr had crossed her physical boundaries for such a long period of time. Trying to swallow the bile rising in her mouth, she kept her thoughts on how close she was to escape this abuse. So she held her head high when Petyr escorted her out of the pavilion, his hands too low on the lower part of her back, Mya and Ronda laughing at some joke in front of her.

 

A few hours later Sansa was pretending to enjoy the evening. Petyr had somehow managed to make a truly splendid feast. Canvas pavilions warmed with braziers, silken banners, and colorful garlands decorating the area from the camps to the castle. Lanterns glittering everywhere. Casks of ale were placed at every corner, servants running to supply the guests with wine, food and everything else the guests could desire. Goats were being roasted, the smell wafting through the air. The fat sizzling as it hit the flames below, as the meat turned slowly by spitdogs trotting in their wheels. Drunken songs and bursts of laughter were already ringing through the darkening night, and soldiers on guard duty glanced enviously at their mates tumbling into darkened corners with giggling women draped around their bodies.

Harry Hardyng had been placed at the head of the table, slightly uncoordinated already before he started drinking. Sansa was quite relieved when he dragged a couple of ample serving wenches into his lap, starting to kiss them instead of her. Ronda and Mya were toasting her with all their worth, saying goodbye with their eyes and smiles, trying to keep the sadness at bay. Sansa toasted back, taking small sips of wine and pouring the rest into the ground when Petyr looked the other way, only to have the cup refilled by servants when he turned back to her. She saw how his intelligent eyes measured up how much drink she`d apparently had, without stopping her in any way. _What are you up to?_ It was quite sad, Sansa reflected, because if Petyr had only let her body be, not trying to regain her dead mother and his lost love through Sansa, she would actually have liked the man. He was pleasant company, _when not trying to grope me,_ clever and capable, a political genius who made money grow like leafs in spring. He _had_ taught her so much about ruling that she felt educated enough to meet the bannermen of the North, relying on her own person, not just her name. At the same time, she had the chilled feeling of being close to the most dangerous person she`d ever known.

Grieving the person Petyr could have been, praying for herself tonight, she toasted him, making her eyes slightly glazed and deliberately spilling some of her wine down her sleeve. Harry was being carried to bed, curiously enough helped by the wenches from his lap, drunkenly protesting that he was good for so much more, all the while fumbling with the laces on the nearest girl’s dress.

Sansa took that as her sign to unsteadily raise herself to her feet, spilling some more wine in the process, giggling drunkenly. Petyr was at her side in a flash, smiling as she told him, words slurring, that she ought to go to bed too. Passing Mya and Ronda, she couldn’t help but throw her arms around their necks hugging them fiercely. Still careful of keeping her voice slurred by drink, she emotionally told them what great friends they were, and how much she loved them. Meaning every word, and seeing in their eyes that they understood, and that their words of love in return were heartfelt.

Petyr gently took her by the elbow and, excusing her state to the other guests, started to lead her to her rooms. Once there, he followed her inside, closing the door to the hallway. Sansa felt tight as a bowstring, and forced herself to relax into a stance of happy drunkenness. Petyr stroked her cheek, smiling reassuringly at her. “Goodnight, my sweet girl,” he said and started to kiss her mouth. She tried to make it a light kiss, but he continued it far too long, adding his tongue. She felt one of his hands slide to her breast, the other cup her mound through her dress. Her stomach lurched, the taste of wine from her own mouth mingling with the mint from Petyr’s, tonight’s nervousness and bile from hundreds of such incidents making her retch. Right into Petyr’s mouth.

He jumped backward away from her, spitting and wiping his tongue on his sleeve, swearing. Sansa managed to hold on to her supposedly drunken state by a hair. She hurriedly slurred an apology, telling him she didn`t know she felt sick until it was too late. He started laughing and told her to drink lots of water and use her chamber pot if she felt like throwing up a second time, before leaving her room without more kisses.

Sansa thanked the Gods, old and new, before counting to five hundred. Then she changed to a woollen shift, warm woollen stockings and smallclothes, a simple dress with fur-lining, and good, warm shoes. She donned her cloak again and tucked warm gloves inside one of her pockets. Everything else would have to stay behind. All her beautiful dresses, silks and Aunt Lysa’s jewellery. She couldn`t make herself take little Robert’s inheritance, even if he would never wake up to receive it. She`d said goodbye to his thin, sleeping form yesterday. Stroked his hair and prayed he would find peace in the afterlife. Silently closing the door to Alayne’s room, she went out into the hallway, quietly grieving her time as a bastard.

She was walking around a corner when she heard him. Panic started to throb in her chest, but she somehow managed to go straight into the drunken state of Alayne before Petyr walked into her view, Ser Marwyn at his side. He stopped, surprised.

“Alayne, I thought you had gone to bed!”

Sansa swallowed, smiled foolishly and carefully held her cloak together to conceal the clothes within. “I`m so sorry to embarrass you, father, but…” Her voice sank to a slurred whisper. “I need to go down to the kitchens and get something for my tummy. It`s quite upset, and I don`t know why, and…” Forcing tears into her eyes she looked at Petyr, swaying slightly on her feet.

Ser Marwyn looked bemusedly at her, but Petyr seemed to have had enough of drunken daughters that couldn`t even be kissed without vomiting. Irritated he shushed her away. “Well, I`m sorry I can`t follow you right now, Alayne, but Bronze Yohn is making a fuss about the honour of guarding the gate or some nonsense. Get your herbs and then right back to your room.” Sansa sullenly replied that she would, reeled a bit when she started walking again, and cheered inwardly at being allowed to continue on her own.

 

  
*******

 

  
Sandor was plain, fucking nervous. He couldn`t remember when that had last happened. Jaime and Brienne had laughingly freed him of his armour, commenting on his performance and comparing moves and techniques, Brienne telling how she`d dragged Ser Loras from his horse in front of the newly crowned King Renly. Even Sandor howled with laughter at that.

“And he was furious!” Brienne said. “Ser Loras, that is. Complaining about how it wasn`t chivalrous to drag him to the ground.”

Jaime was laughing so hard that tears were leaking from his eyes. “Oh seven save me! He was probably mortified at being beaten by _a lady_ in front of his lover! Shit, I would`ve be embarrassed too.”

“What?” Brienne said, big, blue eyes suddenly shocked. Jaimes laughter died.

“Um… you know… in front of Renly,” he said, looking sideways at her. Brienne stood utterly still, eyes wide. Jaime looked at her, compassion creeping into his features. “I know you were in love with Renly, Brienne, but so was Loras,” he said kindly. Brienne continued to stare straight in front of her, not seeming to hear what Jaime said.

“What our golden friend is trying to tell you, is that Renly had been fucking Loras up his arse and the other way around for years,” Sandor replied helpfully. Brienne looked dully into his eyes, then turned away and started to gather his armour into neat piles.

“Ah, Clegane, you fucking asshole,” Jaime said in a low voice.

“It`s the truth, though,” Sandor replied. “It`s not my fault she can`t handle it. Go comfort her all you like, fuck her for all I care. But she needed to know that, one way or another.” Jaime smiled sadly.

“Yes, she did. But not all people are made of rock and acid like you, Clegane, unable to feel anything at all.” And then he got up and left, giving Brienne a one armed hug around her shoulders before walking towards the bathhouse, his saddlebag in the hand still attached to his body.

Sandor followed soon after, the deep hood of his cloak hiding his face. Nobody had recognized him so far. Half of Westeros being set to the torch had left enough fire-damaged soldiers to make burned men a bit more common. But he couldn`t hide his size, and if somebody started to think things through…

Scrubbing the sweat and dirt from his skin he marvelled at all the deep purple bruises starting to blossom across his body. He never felt blows in battle; adrenaline killed all such minor hurts. Cuts and nicks went in the same category. Real wounds were another matter, but he could dull the pain until he had time to do something about it. Some trick of his mind, he guessed, never having thought properly about it before. Unless it was fire on a grand scale, the only thing to make him panic. He could stay that panic for a long time, fighting Dondarrion with his arm burning, for instance. Or heading thrice into hell and back again in the Battle of the Blackwater. But sooner or later the panic surfaced, reducing him to a seven-year-old child again, breaking him.

He wondered what that fucking Lannister would say if he knew. Rock and acid, _bloody insolent prick._ In a way it was good to know his shield to the world still held, not being able to drink himself away from everything, anymore. Actually having to feel every fucking twist and turn of life was a bitch. Like now; the quivering, flying feeling of energy after battle still in his body, trying to fight down the bloodlust in his veins, _it was only a bleeding melee._ And being _nervous?_ Hoping his little bird was as good at fooling Littlefinger as he`d told Jaime. Thinking of all that could go wrong, fucking hell…

But by the Stranger, she`d been marvellous in that crypt. He ruefully thought about how he`d been sure she would be so frightened, still chirping stupid nothings back at every person she thought would hurt her. She had been scared, the blank expression on her face all too recognizable when she walked into that chamber. But then she`d seen him, and that ridiculously beautiful young woman had glided towards him like he was the only man in the whole bloody world. And Sansa had smiled her agonizingly beautiful smile… _At him!_ And the feeling of her body against his… Her face against his chest, the _feeling_ it created in the pit of his stomach, having her embracing him, slender arms around his neck, the smell of roses from her hair… She was everything he had ever imagined on the Quiet Isle, and so much more. Sandor felt himself harden, lusting after the clear, bold gaze she`d given him in the crypt. Imagining that gaze, so unafraid, staring into his face while she lowered herself down on him. _So much for fighting down the bloodlust._

Littlefinger had stationed enough whores around the Gates of The Moon to satisfy several legions on the march, bored and hungry. Sandor knew perfectly well that he could manage to buy himself some pleasure before the tournament feast. But being so close to Sansa it just… _Ah fuck it._ Cursing himself for a lovesick, twelve year old fool, and a _squire_ at that, he closed his hand around his cock and started to stroke himself to release, careful of not making too rhythmic a noise. After all, only curtains separated the tubs placed in long rows in the steamy bathhouse.

As the night darkened around them, Brienne, Jaime and Sandor ate and drank with the rest of the men without any social status. Sellswords, soldiers and other merchant guards sat shoulder to shoulder with peasants come to sell their wares and people come to see the tournament. Knowing it would be quite some time before they could eat this well again, it was hard not to stuff himself. But the risk of having to fight soon was too great. It was even harder not to drink himself into a stupor, with serving wenches trying to bloody drown him in wine.

Thinking about what happened last time he`d gotten drunk in dodgy company, Sandor told the woman to sod off. The blasted hussy didn`t. Instead she bent low, showing off the top of her nicely rounded teats.

“Is it true m`lord won the melee?” she said, not waiting for an answer. “Anything else m`lord would desire than wine?” Her coy was smile inviting. He lifted his head, letting her take a good look into the depths of his hood.

“You really don`t want to serve me anything else,” he rasped. The woman paled visibly, but stood her ground, surely thinking about the money he`d just won. Setting the mug on the table behind her, she swallowed and arranged herself in his lap. _Girl’s got spirit._

A woman’s plump arse in your lap always felt nice, and even if Sandor rolled his eyes inwardly at his own stupidity he let her sit there for a moment. _It`s even more pathetic not to enjoy the wares on display, it`s not like Sansa Stark would ever sit in my lap anyway._ Gaining control of the situation made the girl bolder, and she unlaced her bodice a bit, baring more of her teats, moving slightly in his lap. _Gods, it feels good._ It`d been all too long since the last woman he`d paid to fuck him. Starting to feel aroused again he reached out and cupped her breast, feeling the heaviness and firm softness…. And right then his Little Bird decided to appear.

With him not paying attention to the surroundings for once, she suddenly dropped onto the bench between himself and Brienne. Brienne exclaimed happily to see her, like the cloaked girl was just another friend come to join the feast. For some reason Sandor felt mortified, snatching his hand away from the teat of the wench in his lap. Sansa turned her head and grinned, a bit strained.

“No, go ahead, I can see you are enjoying yourself. I`ll borrow your wine-cup in the meanwhile.” And then she snatched the jug and his cup from the table, and turned away from him, talking to Brienne again. Leaving him feeling utterly stupid.

When did the Little Bird start to get the upper hand in such matters? Stubbornly he grabbed the waist of the wench and dragged her closer, but he didn`t want her anymore and she seemed to understand. The compassion in her eyes as they flicked between Sansa and him made Sandor want to fling her away. Instead he put a silver dragon between her teats and put her to the ground, giving her arse a slap to make her move. She turned instead. _Disobedient slut._

“You ask for Millie, m`lord, if you want to tumble me where you can`t see my face. Sometimes it works to pretend, too.” And then she smiled kindly at him before leaving. _Buggering hells._ If women didn`t stop smiling at him soon, he`d do something really horrible.

A long while later, the four of them started towards the camp. Jaime was telling some story about The Sword of The Morning, making Sansa look at him in interest despite her obvious distaste for the man. _Didn`t take you long to try and wriggle yourself into her good graces, then._ It had been bloody fucking arousing seeing her icily crush Jaime like an ant, down in that crypt. Bloody lion had it coming, some sheet to bleach before earning a Stark’s trust once more. _I trust you._ She hadn`t even demanded an oath. Maybe she remembered he didn`t swear oaths, after all; he hadn`t even sworn himself into the fucking Kingsguard. He would have sworn any oath to her, though…

Arriving at the merchant train they were paid to guard, they walked into the circle of wagons, greeting the sentries as they went. The wagon they slept beneath was set apart from the rest, creating a bit of privacy. Brienne immediately began building a new fire, and Jaime found a wineskin in one of his saddlebags, passing it to Sandor after taking a swig. He knew he`d had enough, and gave it to Brienne, immensely proud of himself for keeping his head.

They`d just sat down when the shout went up. Some kind of commotion was happening outside the wagon-ring. Suddenly wishing they were armoured, Sandor tried to get a look to see what was going on. “You stay,” Jaime said, switching from entertaining storyteller to fighting mode in a flash. Sandor was once again reminded that the man had been a formidable warrior before he lost his swordhand. Even using his left hand, Jaime was starting to climb that ladder again. And that was a good thing, if they were in trouble already. “I`m going to find out what`s happening. You two take care of our lady here.” The Lion was already moving.


	8. Fuck her through her clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

“Seven Hells! They`re checking all the wenches!” Jaime whispered urgently when he got back. Sansa felt her breath stop high in her throat, panic spreading down her spine. _How could he know I didn`t intend to come back? Did he check my room? she thought. Too suspicious by half, that man…_

Sandor and Brienne exchanged glances, before their eyes simultaneously started to roam the camp for a way out. Sansa sat very still on her log, claustrophobic scenarios of the consequences of her actions that night running through her mind. What would Petyr do to her if he ever got his small well-manicured hands on her again? And what would happen to her companions?

“There`s no way out, they`re all over the place,” Jaime hissed between clenched teeth. “But for some reason they`re trying to keep it discreet, not giving descriptions of her or anything.”

“He doesn`t know I`m really gone, then. Just trying to find his drunken daughter I suppose,” Sansa whispered, relief in her voice. “We still have a chance.”

“Not if they see you,” Jaime grumbled. “Shit, here they come! My lady, I`m deeply sorry, but I have no intention of getting caught. Clegane, you great aurochs, throw yourself over Lady Stark there, and pretend you`re fucking a slightly unwilling whore. If your enormous body can`t cover her, nothing can.”

“What? I can`t fucking do _that_ to her,” Sandor growled.

“Yes, you can and you will, this is not a situation we can fight our way out of. Want to save her? Pretend to fuck her. That’s an order,” Jaime’s sudden change to steely commander voice brooked no nonsense.

For a second it looked like Sandor would balk anyway, but then the noise of the guards approaching through the camp grew louder. “I`m sorry,” he muttered, strong arms sweeping Sansa from her log to the ground, ignoring her surprised gasp, laying her down gently. There she lay with a strange feeling of expectation, remembering Sandor’s hand on that woman’s breast, watching him quickly unbuckle his sword belt, looking down at her with… _what… sympathy?_ His face was still difficult to read.

He covered her with his body, after putting the weapons next to her on the ground and spreading his cloak, hitching the hood up to hide their faces. In the deep hood, with their breath mingling in the air, he laid still listening to the noises on the other side of their flimsy shelter, eyes averted.

“Move, you son of a bitch! Is that how you fuck!” Jaime’s voice whispered angrily, followed by a slap on Sandor’s backside.

Sandor growled, met her gaze with an unreadable one of his own. He whispered, “Sorry,” once again, as he gently spread her legs with his knee, lowered himself between them, leant his upper body on his elbows so not to crush her, and started to move slow and rhythmically.

Sansa’s sense of fear was as strong as ever, but at the same time her whole body responded to what he was doing, the sudden closeness, the smell of him and the fact that this resonated strangely with the last time he`d been laying on top of her. Lust flushed hot and strong through her body, making her ache dully between her legs, rapidly disturbing her breathing. She caught herself wanting him to lower himself down so her breasts could touch his chest, her nipples tight under her clothes.

Blushing furiously, she tried to still her wanton thoughts in this moment of peril, listening to the guards’ voices as they neared. Jaime and Brienne were talking quietly, sharing the wineskin back and forth by the sound of it, one of them poking the fire.

Sansa tried to concentrate on what was going on, and what the guards were saying, but she could suddenly feel that she was not the only one responding to the intimate situation. A small sound escaped her lips as Sandor’s cock hardened against her mound, rubbing her nub through the fabric of their clothes with every movement.

She turned her head towards Sandor again, meeting his grey eyes through a curtain of black hair. She blushed again, and the slight embarrassment she had seen in them turned to anger, the burned side of his mouth starting to twitch.

“Well, what the fuck did you expect?” he growled at her, brow furrowed, breathing hard. “I`m no fucking chivalrous knight in shining armour, saving a damsel in distress _by moving between her legs,_ with the passion of a bloody eunuch.”

He deliberately changed the rhythm, going a bit faster, and despite all her good intentions, she spread her legs a bit further. _It feels so good,_ she thought, feeling her lips part and her breath grow ragged. Without thinking she put her arms around him, instantly blushing furiously. Irritably she locked her gaze to his eyes, seeing the slight widening as he felt her hands on the small of his back, pressing him closer for every thrust.

Sandor let some of his weight press down on her, moving his elbows up beside her head, studying her intently while starting to roll his hips up, so every thrust rubbed the full length of his cock against her. She moaned softly, moving her hips up to meet him. Her head fell back as her eyes closed in pleasure, exposing her throat to him. She was rewarded with a deep groan close to her ear, his hands starting to comb through her hair.

Faintly she heard Jaime exclaim something about Brienne being a woman, not a wench, despite her close resemblance to an aurochs. The guard replied with a cheeky note that at least one of the women with them was obviously pretty enough to be worth a fuck, moving their attentions over to her.

But by then she was in another world inside Sandor’s cloak. Her body screamed for release, pulsing with every rolling thrust when their hips met, pressing against each other equally eager. His mouth traced the line of her neck without kissing her and she moaned at the sensation his lips sent tingling down her spine, feeling her smallclothes cling with the new rush of wetness. Her hands stroked his back tightly, feeling the hard muscles underneath her fingers, hands wandering up to the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair. She turned her face into his cheek, the good cheek, feeling his hair against her face, smelling the clean, strong smell of him. _Well, this time he hasn`t been fighting for most of the day, in fire, gore and blood. Or drunk himself to pieces, vomiting all over his clothes._ He smelled good, intoxicating and safe.

How could she feel _safe_ and aroused beyond control, when possible capture was waiting less than five feet away? She heard Jaime nonchalantly say that the guards were very welcome to try to disturb the melee champion in his rutting, but he wouldn`t for the life of him try it himself.

And that was when Sandor suddenly edged a large hand under her bottom and hitched her hips up from the ground, giving a totally new kind of friction to the movement. She just peaked. Her release sending cascades of lightning bolts showering through her body, back arching, pressing her breasts into his broad chest and helplessly moaning loud and clear. Sandor had raised his head, and she opened her eyes in the middle of her release to meet his gaze; grey eyes hazy with lust and pleasure. He groaned, burrowing his face in her hair, his whole body going rigid as her hips continued to buck of their own accord, her fingers digging into his powerful shoulders.

Dazed, she tried to hear anything else than her furiously beating heart. The guards? Were they still waiting to see who she was? Sandor lay heavy on top of her for a moment more, but then pulled himself together with a deep breath, raising his upper body on his elbows, clearly listening.

Her eyes sought his face, wishing for some kind of confirmation of the shared experience. He looked down at her with so many emotions roiling in his stormy eyes that she couldn`t distinguish them from another. His straight black hair was partly obscuring the ruin of his face, and somehow that didn`t feel right. Her hand rose of its own will, fingers delicately stroking his hair away from his scarred flesh, amazed that he didn`t pull away. The tips of her fingers brushed against his forehead, and then her palm stroked the twisted scar tissue of his cheek, resting her thumb at the burned side of his mouth, feeling it twitch slightly, before following the scar all the way down his neck.

Meeting his eyes once more, Sandor looked utterly vulnerable, tightening his hands still in her hair and opening his mouth to speak… and was mercilessly interrupted by Jaime shaking his shoulder roughly.

“Hey lovebirds, they`re gone. So sorry for the inconvenience, my lady,” he said, grinning insolently down at them.

The stony expression on Sandor’s face and in his eyes returned like a whip crack, before he brusquely got off her. He retrieved his weapons and turned around, adjusting his coat roughly, leaving her to get up by herself.

“Seven hells, you did that convincingly,” Jaime exclaimed chuckling with mirth, at which Sandor only grunted, buckling on his sword belt and pulling his whetstone out of a pocket. Jaime laughed, passing the wineskin to Sandor, who drank deeply before seeming to take hold of himself and passing it back without drinking more from it again.

Brienne looked closely at Sansa. “Are you all right?” she asked, moving over to sit beside her on the log, her big beautiful eyes filled with compassion. “I`m really sorry you had to do that, but it was the only way we could hold them off.”

Sansa heard Jaime chattering on about how perfectly timed her moan had been. One of the guards had apparently rolled his shoulders and gone over to check on her regardless, but turned on his heel at the sound, fearing that disturbing them right then would indeed cost him too much, and marched away with the two other guards laughing at his back.

“Do not think of it, Brienne, I understand,” Sansa replied, trying to sound the right kind of shaken, at the same time trying to get her mussed up hair in a braid. She must have managed to sound shaken at least, because Brienne’s brow furrowed slightly.

“You and Clegane seem familiar with each other… you hugging him and all…” she said carefully, “so if you don`t mind me being so bold, I would like to say that even if his appearance is quite frightening and his manners do not help, he`s not the worst man Jaime could have thrown over you as a blanket,” she completed in a low voice.

Sansa didn`t know what to reply. Sandor was the only one she thought she could stand being in such an intimate situation with, but also the only one who could trigger her body to totally lose control. And now he was sitting as far away from her as he could, grunting now and then in reply to what Jaime was talking about, his eyes locked on the sword he was sharpening with even strokes. Quite pointedly not looking in her direction.


	9. Gates of bliss and frustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Sandor lay looking up at the wagon-bed above him, waiting for dawn. Drunken shouts and bursts of laughter were still drifting through the night, but the festivities had mostly died down, leaving a calm, cold, late-autumn night sparkling with stars and frosting the ground. His breath was misting in front of him, but he felt warm enough in his bedroll, blankets up to his chin. Glancing at the Little Bird sleeping next to him, he hoped she felt warm too.

She slept between himself and Brienne. Jaime had gotten such an icy stare when trying to lay his bedroll down beside her, that it`d made the blasted Lion ruefully shake his head as he`d mumbled something about getting old when the maids didn`t even want you _sleeping_ next to them anymore. Jaime wasn`t _that_ much older than himself, but Sansa hadn`t complained at Sandor taking the other side. _Good girl, show the Lannister where he belongs._

She was so beautiful when she slept, her hair tousled and her breath misting softly out of slightly parted lips. The blanket had slipped from one of her arms, exposing it to the cold in only her sleeve. Sandor reached out carefully and adjusted the woollen fabric, covering her arm and shoulder. He couldn`t help himself and stroked her cold hair before retreating. She sighed in her sleep, oh so prettily, making him want to drag her bedroll towards him and wrap his arms around her. _But would you like that, Little Bird?_

This was the second most agonizing thing he`d experienced in his whole wretched life, apart from getting his face burned off. But after last night he`d started to bloody wonder if Sansa would turn out to be just as painful. Her mark inside him just as lasting as the scars on his face. For the first time in his adult life he actually wanted another person near, wanted all the ridiculous storybook bullshit about affection and closeness. And he simply couldn`t forgive himself for the way she dazed him, as he hadn`t expected this traitorous reaction from his own mind and body in any way. Not being able to get her out of his fucking head and riding to her aid was one thing. Being around her for real, seeing her as a woman, made him walk around in constant frustrated longing. And knowing he would never get what he wanted, _needed_ so badly, because no one would ever want him or what he bloody had to give… was nearly as painful as burning.

As dawn finally neared Sandor was all too happy to get into motion. The rest of the merchant-guards were also stirring, knowing they would soon be on the road. Sandor did the morning’s chores, feeding the horses, brushing them down and readying them for the day’s ride, snorting at the thought of what Brienne’s horse was named. Really, an aurochs riding a Daisy? _Fucking hell…_ But a Kingslayer riding his Honour wasn`t too bad a joke, either.

Returning to the wagon, he found Brienne fully armoured once more, helping Jaime into his. Sandor started dressing himself, shrugging into the brigandine, tugging the laces tight. Only people who really wanted to freeze would ride in full plate and mail now. The rest of the camp was up and running, packing down their bedrolls, leading horses and loading wagons. Sansa slept on, oblivious to what was going on around her. Not trusting himself to look into Sansa’s sleeping face again so soon after regaining some sort of self-control, Sandor grumbled at the large wench fastening Jaime’s gorget. “Brienne, go shake some life into our squire, would you?”

Brienne did as she was bid, returning a moment later with a yawning Little Bird in her wake. Sansa rubbed her eyes and smiled shyly at him, pushing his whole inner chaos into motion again as he fastened his vambrace. _Ah, for fuck’s sake!_ Finally managing to get really raging angry at himself, he felt his face darkening, the burned side of his mouth starting to twitch, stopping Sansa from going over to him. And that was for the bloody best. He couldn`t continue in this buggering dazed state. Slamming his mind’s shield into place, he finally started to feel like himself again. Being angry felt so much better than feeling powerless.

He threw the bundle of clothes they`d prepared for her at her feet. “Go change, and just so you know, we might need to cut off your hair,” he rasped irritably, wincing inwardly at the thought of a knife slicing through her tresses. Sansa stared silently back at him looking hurt, but picked up the clothes and headed under the wagon again, hanging her cloak up as a curtain. She peaked out moments later.

“I`m not cutting off my hair if I can avoid it,” she said looking sideways at him. _Fuck, she knows…_ “Do none of you own a woollen cap or something?”

It turned out Brienne did, and in moments the clever Little Bird had coiled her braid at the back of her head, with its tip hanging out over her forehead. Brienne caught on and tugged the cap over her hair, arranging the tip of the braid to make a fringe. Sansa walked over to him looking like an all too pretty, tousled-haired squire, fastening his belt.

“Right, since I`m obviously your squire I better do my duties, then,” she said smiling sweetly up at him again. _My squire?_ And before he managed to react she`d bloody started buckling him up, fastening his pauldrons to the back of his brigandine.

“What do Little Birds know of armour?” he rasped sourly, turning to her. “Go sit and look pretty somewhere, and stay out of our way.” Sandor looked as stonily as he could down at her, the thought of her hands so close to his body a bit too much right now.

“Ah, well, I wouldn`t have been brought up in a household crowded with fighting men, now would I, _ser?_ ” she answered, showing him her teeth. “And even if I that were so, I`m quite sure I`m clever enough to match a common squire with sawdust for brains.”

Sandor snorted, surprised at her outburst. “I`m no ser, _my lady,_ but if you insist,” he sneered right back, baring his teeth in return. Turning his back to her he lifted his arms, waiting for her. She went to work, tugging straps into buckles and metal onto pins with a bit more strength than strictly necessary, apparently riled. He felt amusement creep into his features when she showed him that she did actually know the drill, but it turned quickly to vicious spikes of jealousy. _What have you been up to with the fighting men of the Vale, Little bird?_

When she was finished he just lowered his arms and strode over to their saddlebags, stuffing the last things unceremoniously into them, trying hard not to think of her nimble fingers on another man’s straps and buckles. Sansa positively bristled, walking after him, and lowered her face into his vision. “The polite words are called _thank you,_ ” she said looking him straight in the face before turning around, obviously not expecting an answer. Sandor felt like she`d slapped him. Jaime, the bugger, chuckled.

“Good luck teaching that one courtesy. Ah, stop glowering, Clegane. It`s actually quite common to say your thanks when someone does something for you. See? Thank you, Brienne, for helping me don my armour.”

Brienne grinned at the blasted Lion, looking up from dousing the embers of last night’s fire. “You`re welcome,” she replied.

Jaime winked cheekily at her, making her blush. “Not hard at all, Clegane”.

Sandor felt rage slam through his body. He remembered very well the fear that had engulfed him during the riot in King’s Landing, when he couldn`t find Sansa. And the relief when he`d managed to throw her up behind him on that horse and cantered her to safety. She`d come stuttering something a while later, but ‘should have thanked you’ could hardly count as ‘thank you for saving my life’. He walked over to her, lowering his face to hers, rasping in a low voice, “Really, Little Bird, I seem to remember a couple of thanks not accounted for on your part, too.”

“What do you mean?” she said a bit breathlessly, a blush blossoming in her cheeks, but stubbornly held his gaze. “In King’s Landing you always mocked me for my courtesy, and called me a bird for chirping learned phrases back to you. I don`t chirp anymore, but I remember common courtesy. Maybe you should too, and stop snarling at all I say,” she completed, sounding strained.

He barked a laugh. “No, girl, you don`t chirp anymore, do you? It`s actually nice to see you show some claws. But it would have been nice, too, to have gotten a _proper_ thank you for wading through a fucking riot to save your pretty little neck, not just some stutters a long time later,” he rasped, feeling hurt that she didn`t remember, angry at himself for feeling hurt, and frustrated that she made him feel so much shit. And with a last angry glance at her, he hitched a saddlebag up onto his shoulder, grabbed two more in his hands, and strode away in the direction of the picket lines and their horses.

The merchant was called Jamer Rhys, and didn`t have the slightest idea who he was smuggling out of the Vale, or the fact that he was smuggling anybody at all. All he cared about was that the Vale’s food stores were stocked for the winter, in contrast to the rest of Westeros. He had gold, and Gull Town had food to sell, and he would multiply the gold paid by five as soon as he was back at The Reach. _Greedy little bastard,_ Sandor thought sourly.

Sansa was riding behind him, looking like a too-pretty, long-legged boy riding a rouncey. She had been pleased when introduced to the animal. Which she fucking should be, given he`d paid a small fortune for the horse. Horses were getting expensive, destriers and coursers almost impossible to purchase, and he hadn`t seen a decent palfrey since King’s Landing.

The gelding was called Guardian, and was a pretty thing like his owner. Red-brown fur, black mane and tail, with white socks and a blaze highlighting his neat head. However, it wasn`t for that that Sandor had bought him. He also had a deep chest for endurance, tight body, perfect topline and good hindquarters for speed, dry legs and healthy hoofs. His gait was strong and energetic and his teeth told Sandor that he wasn`t more than six years old. He was old enough for full use, too young to have gotten any abrasion damage. And he was good-natured, unlike Stranger. Sandor prayed Guardian would indeed guard his Little Bird in the months to come.

He hadn`t seen her on a horse since the kingsroad, traveling south with Eddard Stark. Then, she`d been a terrible rider, insecure and more concerned about how her dress looked than anything else. Most of the time she`d been traveling in a wagon. It seemed to Sandor that Alayne had been doing quite a bit of riding in the Vale, but there was still much to correct. Which he did, she being his bleeding squire and all.

“If you tug at that poor beast’s mouth one more time, I will fucking clamp his bridle on you instead and let you feel what you`re doing to him,” he said as they neared the gate, riding alongside a wagon, Jamer Ryhs shouting unnecessary orders to unimpressed drivers. Sansa looked up at him, surprised.

“I… didn`t think of that,” she said, looking ashamed, patting Guardians neck. “I`m sorry,” she whispered to the horse. Sandor instantly felt himself subside, and gave himself a mental upbraiding, before grumpily adding that he would kick her, too, if she didn`t start using her legs more carefully.

Jaime snorted. “Ah, charming!” Brienne started prattling about the correct caretaking of expensive mounts, and even though he agreed, Sandor wasn`t listening anymore. Sansa sat staring at him, from under her tousled hair and cap, reins forgotten in her hands, Guardian now happily trudging along. He would miss her lowered eyes soon, if she continued to study him like an interesting bloody cyvasse board. He kept glancing at her face, despite every intention of ignoring her, cursing himself inwardly.

Images from last night kept haunting him, making calm breathing difficult. Trying to sleep had been too much to ask. All he could think of was her long legs spread for him, her hips moving up to rub him through their clothes. The way she`d looked aroused; flushed and beautiful, lips parted so he could see her even, white teeth when she exposed her slim throat to him, gasping. The feeling of her silky hair, smelling of lily of the valley, and the way she had met his gaze, _looking_ at him, not imagining he was someone else.

She`d even put her arms around him, hands stroking his back, pushing him towards her eagerly. Just _thinking_ of how it felt to be in her arms, and how her arse had felt in his hand when he lifted her up against him, made a wave of arousal flow through him. And the _sound_ she`d made when she found her release… Combining that with the pleasure on her face, much more amazing than he`d ever imagined, her firm breasts pressed against him, knowing that it was her sweet cunt that she rubbed against his cock… It had pushed him right off the edge, his own release so strong it was a wonder he`d managed to shut his mouth instead of moaning loudly together with her. _That wouldn`t have made Jaime suspicious at all, now would it?_

Sandor couldn`t figure it out. He`d thought Sansa would be terrified and disgusted by the situation Jaime had flung them into. That she would once again lay shivering underneath him, frightened and repulsed by his appearance. After all, she`d only bloody looked at him after he`d roared at her with his dagger to her throat the last time. He`d felt like the lowest kind of bastard standing over her, removing his swordbelt to make it _a bit_ more comfortable for the Little Bird, not knowing if he should thank the Gods or curse his luck for being able to feel his body pressed to hers once more.

If she could annul her marriage to Tyrion because they hadn`t consummated it, she was still a maiden. For some reason that had made him embarrassed when she so obviously blushed at the feeling of his reaction to her body. And that had quickly turned into anger at the whole situation. So he`d increased the motion, just to give her a reason to be more embarrassed than he was himself.

Her obvious arousal and pleasure had been a surprise. She was only just realizing how fucking actually felt, he supposed. That it had been him who was accidentally between her legs hadn`t had anything to do with it. But she trusted him, she`d said, maybe that made her bold. Well, of all the tasks he`d been set to do throughout his life in service to the highborn, this was the most pleasant and bloody frustrating of them all.

It made everything worse. Having felt what she bloody did to him _with her clothes on_ made him want her even more. If she managed to push him to release in his fucking breeches, how in all the Gods’ names would it have felt to actually fuck her, letting his cock slide into her sweet, tight cunt? _Seven save me._ Feeling like a longing idiot, he couldn`t even sort out the bloody feelings jumbled up inside him. He knew all too well that a second son of a minor House shouldn`t even _think_ of fucking a highborn lady like Sansa Stark, never even mind breaking his scarred heart over her. Normally he would have put up two fingers to that, bugger them all, but just imagining the disgust on her face if she ever knew, being rejected as the churl he was… hurt.

Not to speak of the chaos she`d created in him when she`d stroked the burned side of his face, brushing away the hair concealing the horror. Looking at him like… he didn`t know… like she cared or buggering something… Blasting every fucking defence to pieces. Jaime had saved him, just before he said something immensely stupid. _Have to buy the bugger a drink for that._

The merchant train soon stood lined up before the gate, together with everyone else impatient to get home. Stranger was trotting on the spot, stamping and tossing his head, eager to finally let off some steam. Sandor sat brooding quietly on top of him, scratching his mane to calm him down, thinking he needed some strongwine. Or a fist-fight. Or preferably both. And a redheaded whore… who moaned prettily. It turned out every single wagon was checked, every woman studied before being allowed through the gate. Littlefinger had set wheels into action to get his daughter back, apparently. That certainly got his mind back on the problem at hand.

Sandor put on his best bored expression when some of the guards came to check upon Ryh’s train. They moved rapidly, systematically going through the wagons one by one. One of them loudly demanded to know if Ryhs had any women with him.

“Just the large sellsword over there,” he pointed. Brienne shrugged her broad shoulders, deliberately moving her horse in front of Sansa and Guardian. It was too late, though. Sandor felt like an iron hand squeezed around his torso when the guard’s eyes narrowed, looking past Brienne and directly at Sansa. Moving his corpulent body towards them, the guard spoke with the same loud voice.

“Oi! You boy! What`s your name and where`re you from?” Concentrating on changing his expression from bored to mildly interested instead of charging the man down, Sandor turned his head, praying that the Little Bird didn`t freeze.

“Burien Rivers, m`lord. From Pinkmaiden m`lord,” her voice sounded husky and boyish, and she made a halfbow from her saddle, chin in, knuckling her forehead. She looked every inch a lord’s bastard, his father having paid for a horse and a place as a squire to smother his guilt. _Seven hells, she`s level-headed._ The fat idiot grunted.

“You`re a pretty one, aren`t you, lad.”

Burien Rivers grinned and answered cheekily. “The wenches at the feast last night surely thought so, didn`t pay for a single one!”

Sandor winced inwardly, feeling the need to hit the boy right in his pretty face, if he hadn`t been Sansa. The guard seemed to feel the same, but restrained himself and, scowling, let them pass. The train of wagons moved all too slowly down the road towards the mountain passes along the Trident.


	10. How to measure distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

They had been on the road for a good half hour before Jaime and Brienne finally trotted up to her, laughing under their breath, and praising her for thinking fast at the gate. “I will take you on as a squire myself, if Clegane doesn`t want you,” Jaime grinned. “I`d bloody knight you, too.” Sansa couldn`t help herself and laughed. _Remember he`s a Lannister._

Sandor rode impassively beside her, stony eyes scanning the surrounding countryside. Every rock or gnarly tree large enough to hide a man got scrutinized. He flicked his glance over her when he heard his name mentioned, and for some reason she thought it was rawness in his gaze. But that was gone in an instant.

At midday the wagons paused. Bread, hard cheese and weak ale were distributed, while the horses were fed and watered by a shallow stream. Sandor hadn`t said a word the entire trip, grumpily doing the job he supposedly was paid for: guarding the train. When Sansa had tried to engage him in conversation he`d only grunted in return, giving her that hard, flat look she remembered so well from King’s Landing. She felt sad, and oddly as if she`d lost something of herself. It was a bit like missing Lady awhile after she`d died. The dull aching after something she couldn`t have.

Irritation flared in Sansa. It hadn`t been her choice to be pretend-fucked, after all. And he had seemed to enjoy it too… up until the end. He had just stiffened when she peaked, and then lay still until Jaime came crashing in. Did he think her some wanton now? Maybe he didn`t want her anymore, now that she wasn`t some frightened innocent little court-bird? _But he did seem to want that serving woman, and she certainly wasn`t innocent…_

The thought stung. The powerful flash of jealousy she`d felt, walking towards the long-table last night, had startled her. But seeing him sitting there with a pretty girl moving her hips in his lap, him touching her breast so intimately, had set all sorts of feelings fluttering through her. _He`s not mine. He`s in my service, but I have no right to meddle in who he finds his pleasure with. He`s a man after all, they will forever have their needs._ Smilingly telling him to carry on had been harder than expected, though. Drinking the rest of his wine in one gulp didn`t dull anything.

Septa Mordane would have dropped dead instantly if she`d seen them later that night. She knew perfectly well a lady shouldn`t long for the feel of a big brute on top of her. But the lust and pleasure in his eyes, his rapid breathing and the way he`d groaned with his hands in her hair while his hips moved so alluringly, was addictive. It was like she`d opened a jewellery box and peeked inside, looking at the most magnificent gems in the world… and then had the lid slammed shut before her eyes. How could one not want to open it again?

She ended up riding with Brienne, and Jaime with her. Brienne was a surprisingly sweet person, but she had a guardedness about her that made Sansa want to embrace her. She contented herself with sharing favourite stories with the large lady, who happened to love the same ones as Sansa. But all the while spent talking of chivalrous knights and beautiful ladies, grand adventures and all the rest of her childhood’s illusions, her gaze kept returning to Sandor.

The broad back and massive rump of his heavy courser was carrying his master like Sandor weighed nothing at all, all explosive energy this early in the journey. She couldn`t help but wonder how much Sandor _did_ weigh. Twenty stones? Pure muscle? More? She remembered well how heavy he`d been, laying on top of her without using his arms for support. It felt good, actually, having her arms around him, but breathing had been hard.

She was suddenly aware that Jaime sat studying her from his horse. Her cheeks were on fire in a heartbeat, not making anything better. Jaime smirked at her, flicking his eyes towards the man riding Stranger. “I just wondered how much he weighs!” she blurted. Brienne stopped in the middle of some rosy explanation, looking confused.

“Who? Stranger?” Brienne asked.

“No,” Sansa whispered mortified.

Jaime burst out laughing, shaking his head. “I have no idea, Burien. About one fourth of Casterly Rock, gold and all, I suppose. Why don`t you canter up to your master and ask him?”

“He would probably bite me,” she said, a touch too bitterly. Jaime was obviously having trouble containing his mirth, making his emerald eyes sparkle. But he looked at her keenly, catching the strain in her voice. _Watch out for this one._

“No, Sansa,” he said in a low voice, swallowing his chuckles. “He snarls and growls at you, but it`s everyone else he bites. He will bring you wherever you want to go, keep you safe. Clegane is just as dogged as the three Hounds of his House.”

When they were making camp that evening, after a day of painfully slow traveling, the first patrol of soldiers caught up with them. Sansa felt terror coil through her stomach, until she saw the leader questioning Rhys. Andar Royce said something, and Rhys roared that everyone line themselves up. Soldiers went through the wagons one more time, as Ser Andar walked his horse past them without even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. But when he cantered past them down the mountain road, he winked at her, balling his gloved hand into a fist beside his saddle. _Bless all Royces!_

The mountainroad grew gradually steeper. At firstly the trees appeared smaller, more gnarled, and then the pines were left behind, the frozen ground starting to display a powdering of wind-swept snow against the tree trunks and in the ditches. When they at long last stopped for the evening, only small twisted birch woods grew amongst rocks and boulders, frozen heather and lichen littering the stiff grass. And the cold was much more prominent. Sansa’s feet felt like icicles, she was sore after a day on Guardian’s back and started to get tired of Sandor’s sullen silence. He dismounted next to her, glancing down to meet her eyes with an unreadable expression on his face, before turning his back on her. Frustration and sadness welled up, she wanted to hold him and hit him at the same time. Feeling anxious for some reason, she reached out and touched his arm. “Sandor…” He shrugged her off, not looking at her as he loosened the girth. She sighed and reached for the reins of Stranger, doing her duty as a squire. That got his attention.

“Seven hells, _boy._ Want to lose your fingers?” he rasped sourly, controlling his equally grumpy mount. She looked him straight in the eyes, feeling her stomach fill with tumbling emotions, before anger got the better of her.

“I`m your squire, _ser._ My job is to tend to sers horse, carry sers sword for him, or shove dirt over ser if ser drinks too much, falls of his horse and break sers neck.”

Fury darkened his features and the burned side of his mouth twitched as he lowered his scarred face to hers, grey eyes like flint. “I. Am. No. Ser,” he rasped, voice low and threatening, his hands closed in an irongrip around her upper arms, making her wince. “And you know _why._ I will continue this charade to keep you out of Littlefinger’s clutches, but if you try being obnoxious with me one more time, I will treat you like I would a _real_ squire with a mouth to big for him,” he held her gaze until he was satisfied with the fear he saw there. Then showed her his teeth, released her and straightened, turning to Stranger once more.

Sansa felt awful. She was probably the only one who did know the whole reason why Sandor had repeatedly refused knighthood. Standing there, looking at his broad back as he was unfastening buckles on the bridle, she started to fully realize how closed off this man really was. And he had given something of himself to her, and she`d actually managed to mock that just now. She moved into his vision, and took his hand. He froze, looking surprised under the expression of dismay. She turned his large hand in her small one, and boldly stroked his callused palm. “Sandor, I apologize. I only wanted you to speak to me again,” she said softly, wincing inwardly at how she`d pronounced his name like a caress. “I`m not quite sure why you stopped in the first place, but if I`ve done something offensive I apologize most sincerely.” Sandor looked incredulous, and then turned away from her, snatching his hand away.

“Get out of my sight, Little Bird,” he sneered.

Dejectedly she unsaddled Guardian, rubbed him down and gave him a piece of her apple. Sandor had worked with a routine that came of many years of training, and had left for the fires before she was done. She looked at Stranger tethered next to Guardian, topping his ears at the crunching from the horse next to him. She found a stick and skewered another piece, before stretching it out towards him. Stranger’s lips closed around it and he crunched the apple while flattening his ears at her.

“You`re a vicious beast, just like your owner,” she told him, standing safely away from the courser. “But you do like treats, and he _did_ hug me back, in the crypt.”

Sleeping under a wagon in the mountains was no luxurious affair. Sansa was cold even before she went to get her bedroll. Eating thin broth and stale bread sitting on a log wrapped in her blanket, she prayed it wouldn`t snow, at least... When they finally tucked themselves in side by side under the wagon-bed, their breath misting in the chilled night air, Sansa was utterly grateful for her woollen cap. Sandor had dumped his bedroll next to hers, found his blanket and turned his back on her. Brienne laid on her other side, breathing slowly. Jaime crawled in last, cursing the cold. He disappeared into his covers, twisted and turned a bit before grabbing Brienne around her waist and dragging her gasping and spluttering towards him. “Shut up, Brienne. I`m freezing my balls off, and you`re big enough to warm the both of us. I won`t fuck you in your sleep, I promise.”

To Sansa’s surprise Brienne gave in, muttering of the lack of decency. And soon they were asleep, the both of them, still with Jaime’s arm wrapped around her waist. Sandor was asleep too, judging by his slow breathing. _It has to be some soldiers’ trick._ With her body beaten up by riding the whole day and miserable to the bone, Sansa felt like she couldn`t sleep. She was cold as ice and felt utterly lonely, with Sandor’s back a few feet away, shutting her out.

She did fall asleep in the end, though, and woke up early next morning with her face pressed against something warm. Sandor had turned around at some point and flung his arm around her, and she`d apparently curled up against him with her head resting on his chest. She felt pleasantly warm inside her blanket, despite the crisp morning air of the mountains, and felt warmer at the thought of being so near him. Thinking he would be furious if he found her like this, she slipped silently from under his heavy arm and crawled out into the twilight, her body aching in protest at being moved once more.

The rest of the camp was still asleep, and the quiet felt comforting in a way. Yawning, she went to work determinedly. Building the fire turned out to be harder than expected, but she managed it, grumbling to herself. Then she went over to their horses, feeding the three manageable ones hay by hand, and sliding hay over to Stranger with a broom she found strapped to the side of one wagon. After a bit of thinking she used the same method to give Stranger oats in a water bucket, while the other horses ate it out of the usual bags. She even managed to retrieve the bucket afterwards. Feeling immensely proud of her accomplishment, she went in search of saddle-oil and cloth. After oiling Stranger’s saddle and bridle, and cleaning his bit, she walked back to the fire planning to tend to Sandor’s armour.

 

*****

 

Sandor woke after the first good night’s sleep he could remember in a really long time. Sansa was already awake apparently, and so was Brienne. Getting his large body out from under the wagon, he grumbled a bit, used to always rising first.

“Good morning,” his Little Bird said as soon as he came into her view. He glowered at her in return.

“Good morning is it?” he rasped, seating himself on a log. She smiled shyly at him.

“I hope you`ll think so, at least.” She gave him food to break his fast, but also brought him mulled wine making him glance incredulously at her. “In case you we`re cold,” she said, still looking shy. _What in seven hells is she up to?_ Trying not to act the total arse, he thanked her, but curiously enough he didn`t feel cold at all. _Oh shit, I held her!_ All sleepiness was washed away by the sudden memory. Meeting her beautiful blue gaze, he saw the faint blush staining her cheeks. _And she knows it too. Damn it._

He drained his wine and went to check on Stranger, furious that he couldn`t even sleep without everything going straight to hell. The horse stood smugly chewing the rest of his hay, whinnying softly when he saw Sandor. That was surprising on its own, that somebody had managed to feed him while tethered. But when finding out that he`d been given oats too, and that his fucking saddle and bridle were oiled… He walked back towards the fire, not sure if he was angry at her trying to bugger him doing squire’s chores, or impressed that she`d actually managed to tend to his bad-tempered horse.

Jaime sat yawning by the wagon when Sandor walked over and sat down next to the Little Bird. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he turned towards her. “What the fuck did you do to manage my horse?” he asked, amusement creeping through his hoarse voice and dark mood, despite his every intention. She looked at him and smiled, _please don`t smile so sweetly at me._

“I tried to be kind to him, so maybe he`ll like me,” she answered, cheeks rosy once more. _Oh seven hells._

It didn`t help that he found his armour neatly stacked, the leather oiled and the steel scrubbed for rust. The campsite brimmed with activity now, his resistance was rapidly crumbling to dust, and he couldn`t do shit about it. He stood there with one of his poleyns in his hand cursing every bloody God for laughing themselves senseless as they fucked up his life on purpose, when Sansa quietly walked over and started buckling him up again. Reminding him of how she`d stroked his palm yesterday, sending shivers down his spine. _Yes, point taken, thank you so much you buggering fuckers!_ Her hair still smelt faintly like lily of the valley, and the feeling of her hands moving deftly over his body to don his armour were all too distracting. Looking down at her, he wondered how anyone could be so bloody intoxicating.

Even dressed as a squire and with her hair plain brown in a woollen thing from hell, she was gorgeous. And then she tilted her face up towards him, her Tully-blue eyes glittering and full lips smiling. His body and mind resonated in longing and lust. It was impossible not to think of how it would feel, to press his burned mouth to those tempting, soft lips of hers, taste her, and feel her tongue caress his own.

Before she could notice how tight his breeches suddenly were, he bent down to fasten his greaves. From there he looked up at her. “Thank you for helping me don my armour, Little Bird,” he said wryly.

“Hooray!” Jaime bellowed, earning a swat from Brienne. Sansa laughed, giving Sandor a dazzling smile.

“You are welcome,” she said sweetly and _straightened his bloody hair_ as she left for the picket line.

Horses were being harnessed and hitched to their wagons. Rhys was shouting abuse at his drivers at the top of his voice, and everyone was getting ready for the road. Sandor Clegane stood thinking Sansa Stark would kill him with her sheer presence one day, while the Gods toasted merrily to his bones.


	11. Comrades in arms and an arm-lock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

They stayed with the merchant train through the mountains, sleeping and eating side by side. Sandor had been less angry towards Sansa after the first morning she`d tended to Stranger, but kept his distance. He never touched her if not absolutely necessary, never said anything _truly_ indecent to her. It was frustrating her no end, she nearly wished he would get drunk again and comment on her breasts! She didn`t quite know when she`d realized it, but if Randa had asked her again now, if she was in love with Clegane… she would have shouted yes. The sad thing was, he seemed to have lost his interest in her.

The mountains had their own beauty. The birch woods were long gone, long grass reduced to moss, lichen and heath-land. Boulders large and small surrounded the road, from time to time made into cairns where good campsites could be found. Sansa was getting used to the cold, and didn`t think so much about it as long as she was in motion. After one of the drivers showed her how to dress the insides of her stout shoes with wool, her feet didn`t feel like they were ready to fall off at the end of the day’s ride either. And the light was magnificent, sunrise and sunset colouring the mountains around them purple, blue and orange, golden ridges shimmering like the gates to all seven heavens.

Sansa kept up her squire duties, feeding Stranger and Guardian, helping Sandor in and out of his armour, bringing him food, and looking after him as best she could. One of the other merchant guards even went as far as to give Sandor compliments for his hardworking squire.

Sandor himself looked bemusedly at her after the man had left to take a piss. Shaking his head he turned to Jaime. “I`ve changed my mind, you can`t have my squire after all, I want the bastard for myself.” Sansa’s heart had jumped in her chest, and she`d reprimanded herself inwardly for a romantic fool. But there had been a quietness in his grey eyes, and he`d actually averted his gaze, as if he`d said too much.

“Oh well, guess I`ll knight Brienne instead,” Jaime answered nonchalantly, studying his fingernails. Brienne stared at him in shock, showing off her magnificent eyes.

“Why not?” Sandor rasped. “She would have singlehandedly beaten the shit out of half the remaining Kingsguard.” He spat into the fire. Brienne looked on the verge of tears over such praise.

Sansa had found Brienne quite ugly when they started out, with her teeth standing out a bit too much, her wide mouth, broken nose and large body. Her figure would never be feminine, but her eyes and freckles made her face endearing to Sansa at least, and her scars didn`t matter. _But I hardly count, reacting to Sandor Cleganes face as if he was the most handsome man in the world…_

Right now he was talking to her and she wasn`t listening, that wasn`t courteous at all, now was it? Feeling her face redden, she excused her lack of attention. Sandor snorted, amused.

“Now, what could be more interesting than what was just coming out of my mouth, Little Bird?” _Your face._ He actually smiled slightly at her, stretching his back, and then arms, making his body crack with the strain, flexing powerful muscles. _And your body._

“What I was trying to suggest to _my lady,_ ” he rasped in a lower voice, “was that you need to get something in return for being such a dutiful squire. Maybe learn some of what a squire needs to know to eventually join the ranks of those sons of bitches,” he said, pointing a thumb at Jaime. The Lannister knight smiled gracefully, making an acknowledging bow to the pretty presentation.

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked, confused. He looked her straight in the eyes.

“I have been fighting my whole life, I know my own worth as a fighter, as do they.” He nodded at Jaime and Brienne. “As long as we`re near, anybody trying to get you would have to kill the three of us first. No easy task. And still, I would feel better if I knew you could stab someone.” He took a deep breath, and looked down at his hands before meeting her eyes again, voice turning to the brutal, harsh rasp she knew. “Not all lordly husbands are good ones, for fuck’s sake. You would be pretty easy to hold down on a bed with a dagger to your throat, you know. It would please me greatly to know you could turn that dagger, and not let _any_ bugger have his way with you, if you don`t want him to.”

She met his gaze, stunned. Was he trying to apologize? Telling her that he knew he`d been so very in the wrong that time? “Would you like to learn to ride properly?” he continued, hoarse voice sounding strangely eager. “Learn to defend yourself without weapons? Handle a knife or dagger?” _He`s offering to teach me what he knows best, inviting me into his world._ Her heart beating for him, she smiled.

“What if I wanted to learn the two-handed greatsword?”

The three warriors in front of her howled with laughter, and she joined them, feeling the relief of pure enjoyment for the first time since she left her friends in the Vale.

“It`s only if you want to,” Sandor said gruffly, starting to retreat into himself again when the laughter died out. Grey eyes turning to grey shields.

“No!” she exclaimed and reached out to hold him back. “I… I mean yes. I would like to learn from you.” Sandor looked from her hand holding onto his own to her face, surprised. She blushed like a sunset, taking her hand back. “I`m sorry,” she laughed shakily, embarrassed. “I really would. It`s just I`ve never been trained in anything… violent. And Arya was always the wild one.”

Sandor raised himself from the log he was sitting on. “I know,” he rasped softly, before getting to his feet. “Come along, Little Bird. And Brienne. Don`t need you Jaime, too few hands.” Jaime lay back on his elbows.

“You know, Clegane, one day I`m going to beat the living daylight out of you left-handed. Bear that in mind, would you?”

Sandor snorted, amused. “I`m looking forward to seeing you try.”

Brienne sent him an irritated look, and said under her breath, “You shouldn`t say such things to him, Clegane, it`s been really hard on him losing his hand.”

Sandor bared his teeth in a smile without warmth. “You forget yourself, _wench._ We grew up sparring. Trust me when I say he`d never shut his arrogant mouth for my sake.”

“She`s not a ‘wench’, she`s called Brienne,” Jaime shouted from his relaxed position at the fire.

“For fuck’s sake, Jaime! If you don`t shut up about it, I`ll bloody start calling you wench instead!” Sandor bellowed back.

They went outside the wagon-ring and found a pretty flat area covered in heath. Sandor turned to Sansa, and she found herself wondering if it was such a clever idea to try to tackle this enormous, intimidating man, even if they only trained. She had seen Brienne’s bruises after trying him out the other day. She swallowed, suddenly nervous. “What… how… will you teach me to… to… fight?” she said anxiously. He chuckled darkly.

“Stop whining. I`m not going to beat you.” He took her wrist, and bent her hand backwards, not ungently. “Firstly you`ll need to learn how to get out of tricky situations. Brienne is almost as large as me, she could punch trough Ser Boros Blount before the corpulent fucker managed to blink. You, on the other hand, need to fight with leverage, being so much smaller than your likely opponents.” Sansa furrowed her brows, trying to hold her attention on what he was saying, instead of the feeling of his hands on her. He pushed down hard. She managed to keep it to a grunt, but her whole body bent to avoid the pain.

“That hurt!” she said, offended.

“It`s supposed to,” he answered, letting her go. “Imagine Blount’s ugly face, and say you don`t want to learn this.” He stared down at her, merciless.

Sansa felt shadows of blows on her body, not only from Blount, the whole Kingsguard had been involved… except Sandor. She met his gaze silently, sharing hurtful memories of pain and shame. Sandor’s grey eyes started boiling with emotions, but she was quite sure that what was shining through it all was compassion. She swallowed, wanting his body to show the same amount of passion as his eyes. To her, at least. Brienne started blinking uncertainly between them, fidgeting her swordhilt.

“Teach me, then. I`ll stop whining,” she said, feeling breathless. He looked strangely proud of her, and grinned wryly, before continuing.

“Off course, strength matters. But if you`re quick, you`ll get the upper hand. To fight with leverage you need to know the weak parts of the body. Look.” And then he launched out in accurate descriptions of arm-locks, strikes, throws and where to dig your fingers in. All the while demonstrating on Brienne. Sansa watched him, feeling heat rise in her body. Something provoked her when she saw him in these situations.

Then it was her turn. She tried to remember everything he`d said, but it was hard when his hands touched her, adjusted her position, made her feel how much strength she needed to put into the movement. There was something dreamlike about the whole situation, the way he talked to her like he respected her but at the same time was the tutor. Standing close, feeling his body brush against hers.

Brienne offered tips and encouragement, smiling as Sansa started to make things work.

“She needs to learn how to break away from hands trying to throttle her, you know,” Brienne said seriously.

Sandor grunted agreement and turned towards Sansa again, meeting her gaze. He hesitated, before gently laying his large hands with their thin silver scars around her neck. She looked at him, suddenly feeling like she was in a most intimate situation, as if she was waiting to be kissed. His calloused thumbs stroked her collarbones as he tightened his grip, still letting her breathe. He looked down on her quietly, before clearing his throat.

“Right. What would you have done to bend my hands away if I was trying to strangle you?” _Kissed you, hoping you would stop strangling me with your hands and take my breath away with your body instead._ Blushing, Sansa took hold of his hands, trying to bend them away, to no avail. She struggled a bit more just to have an excuse to touch his warm, long fingers, but finally let go, defeated.

“Fucking hard, heh?” he grinned, and removed his hands, leaving a warm shadow on her skin. “See these points? Between the bones of your thumb and index finger? Press your thumbs in hard and bend, like this.” He showed her, every touch feeling like a caress, and Sansa made herself try to breath evenly so he wouldn`t notice. “Try again,” he rasped at her, somehow sounding more hoarse than usual.

He put his hands on her shoulders, stroking up her throat as his fingers tightened around her neck. Harder this time. She met his gaze and took hold of his hands, her thumbs caressing him as she tried to find the spot he`d showed her. He tightened his grip even more, constricting her breathing, making her feel desperate in need of air soon. She took hold of herself, found the soft point on his hands, and bored her thumbs into his flesh, nails and all, wrenching his hands loose with all her might.

Brienne cheered, and clapped her back. “You really did that perfectly, Sansa! Really, I`m impressed! Bet you didn`t think she could manage that in her first try now, Clegane?” Sandor smiled wryly at her.

“No,” he grumbled looking pleased and annoyed and at the same time. “You did well, now try that arm-lock again with Brienne. And keep your posture!” He looked at her strangely, and shook his head before wiping the blood of his hands. “You`ve grown talons, Little Bird.”

“Oh, I`m so sorry!” Sansa exclaimed, trying to have a look at what she`d done to him. He snorted incredulously at her, before his expression softened.

“Don`t be,” he replied in a quiet voice. “Now, bugger off and hold Brienne down in that arm-lock.”

He was merciless. Firstly insisting on her getting every movement right, and then pushing her endlessly for more speed. Brienne was frustratingly fast, and smilingly enjoying herself as she threw Sansa around. But eventually she managed to hold Brienne in a bent-arm arm-lock, laughing joyously at her accomplishment.

“Good,” Sandor grumbled, scratching his growing beard. “Now, try me.” She tried. With all her might. It was like trying to bend stone. It didn`t help that her opponent kept grinning mockingly down at her, either.

“You`re impossible!” she exclaimed at last, breathless and annoyed. “You don`t know how useless you make me feel!” Sandor looked at her strangely.

“Brienne, go get the squire some water before he expires.” Brienne thought water an excellent idea and strode in the direction of the fire. “Really, Little Bird, repeat that sentence of yours, and then tell me who my brother is.” he rasped down at her under his breath. Sansa felt her eyes widen.

“I`m so… utterly sorry for that, I didn`t think… you`re just so large!”

He barked a laugh, “Gods, Sansa, one day I`ll make Jaime lecture you on what not to say to a man you don`t intend to bed.” Sansa blushed. _But I do want to bed you._ Brienne came back with a water skin, and Sansa thanked her feverishly before doing something about her suddenly dry mouth.

“Right. One more try, Little Bird?” Sandor said, and bent his arm for her so she had him in an arm-lock to begin with. She felt dizzy being so near him, feeling the warmth radiating from his powerful body. But determination won, and she bent his wrist and tried to hold on. He wrenched his arm loose, grabbed her around the thighs and threw her over one shoulder.

She hung there laughing helplessly, hitting his lower back to no avail. “And why am I impossible this time, Little Bird?” he said, grinning darkly at her when he lowered her to the ground.

“Because you`re so much bigger and stronger than me?” Sansa answered uncertainly.

“No, because I`m fast.” He suddenly looked serious. “What could you have done to compensate for me being big and strong?” He was standing so close! Trying to make her brain work, she glanced at the ground.

“I don`t know,” she whispered, feeling stupid. He pushed her chin up with his index-finger. Grey eyes met her own.

“You could have kneed me in the balls as hard as you could, and I promise you, I would have been like a bloody infant in that grip.”

Eyes wide, she stuttered. “I... that... It would have been really...”

“Unchivalrous?” Sandor finished for her. “Do you think Boros ever showed you honour? Fighting is seldom honourable, especially if a grown man wants to hurt you. So, kick the bugger where it hurts most. And put your whole being into that kick. That’s your most important lesson for today.”

In the rapidly darkening camp, they went to their bedrolls. Brienne praised her accomplishments to Jaime while they were tucking themselves in as usual. The two of them seemed to have reached a quiet agreement that body-warmth was a good thing, continuing to sleep next to each other. Jaime grunted sleepily in return, murmuring that being related to the old wolf should surely count for something.

Looking over at them, Sansa felt alone. She hadn`t woken up in Sandor’s arms again, and the night felt colder on more than one level for it. She had hoped Sandor would close the gap between their bedrolls, if only for practical purposes, but he turned his back to her every night, and slept without ever edging an inch closer.


	12. Don`t plait his courser!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

The next day she woke up to a world clad in white. In the dim light before dawn, the snow glittered like a carpet made of a thousand of diamonds. Sansa’s breath misted in front of her, and she was cold to the bone. Shivering, she looked to her right. Sandor lay sprawled on his stomach, arms over his head, breathing slow and even. His face looked peaceful for once, black hair spilling over his blanket. She reached out and stroked his upper arm gently, meaning it more like a secret caress than to wake him, but his eyes opened immediately. “Good morning,” she whispered, thinking fast, trying not to wake the others. “See how beautiful it is!”

He groaned and stretched long limbs. Yawning, he put his arms under the covers and looked out from beneath the wagon. “You woke me to tell me it`s beautiful outside?” he grumbled.

“Well, it is,” she said, feeling embarrassed. “And, I`m cold.” She lay shivering in her covers, trying to work up the nerve to ask him if he would share his blankets with her. He looked stonily at her, catching her hint, before he sighed, moved over on his side and held his blankets up for her to crawl into. She snuggled close to him, enjoying the warmth and the nearness of him.

He stiffened, arms at his side. “Please,” she said, feeling the now familiar sadness and frustration. Disappointed that he obviously didn`t feel anything for her in return. “I know you don`t want me this close. But I`m so cold, and I won`t behave like a wanton… whore like I did in the Vale,” she heard the bitterness in her own voice. “Please just hold me and give me some warmth,” she whispered, mortified.

His arms went slowly around her, rubbing her arms and wrapping the blankets tight. She`d expected something mocking, but he didn`t say a word, just laid there holding her close, until dawn broke. Then he released her and rolled out of the blankets, tugging his jerkin straight and tucking her in before he went out in the snow, an unreadable expression in his eyes the whole time.

She tried not to despair, but not one of the songs she`d loved as a child had ever told exactly how much it hurt to love somebody who didn`t love you in return. Maybe she`d been so vain that she`d never really believed she could not be loved? Everybody had always told her how beautiful she was, and her birth was impeccable. Surely she was meant for a high lord who would love her, and she would give him lots of children and everybody would be happy.

From a political point of view, her private heartache was ridiculous. She could never marry such a lowborn man like Sandor. His reputation alone was enough to condemn any love story, courtly or not. He wasn`t even a knight and any inheritance of the Clegane lands could very well have been passed to someone else by now. Her bannermen would be furious if she even suggested it. She should marry to gain support, soldiers and alliances in the North. But she was already married. Yes, it could be annulled, Tyrion had never consummated it. Mercifully. But would she actually want to get that, oh-so-practical marriage annulled?

She knew her own worth as a political player: she would be a formidable opponent in the Game of Thrones when the time came. If she ever saw Tyrion again, she would know how to handle him. They would reach an agreement they would both find valuable, she was sure. Alliances, soldiers and support could be gained in more ways than by marriage. And that would free her from being sold again.

She wanted Sandor. His unwavering loyalty, his sword and fighting skills, his shrewd mind, his alluring body, dark humour, vicious mouth, bad moods, burnt face, everything. But she found she had no experience in seducing a man who didn`t want her in the first place. Truth be told, she`d only had harmless kisses charmed out of her by comely youths in The Vale. Excepting Petyr and Harry’s slobbering… and her first kiss. Taken by Sandor when he`d still wanted her.

The trouble was, she couldn`t remember the feeling at all nowadays. She`d been looking at his mouth, wondering how it would feel to kiss him, the scarred part too, only yesterday. Then she remembered she`d already done it… it was just… it felt _wrong._ The little she could recall felt like something from her childhood fantasies. Like chivalrous knights and beautiful, gentle queens. _It does not exist._ That sentence... It does not exist. _Oh Gods! The kiss does not exist! I made it up! That’s why the rest of the night stands out so much more clearly! Why in the Maiden’s name did I do that?_

Lying utterly still in her covers, staring up at the wagon-bed, the realization made her nauseous. She threw the blankets aside, and crawled out into the frozen world with mountains all around, gasping for air. Sandor had been right. She had just been a stupid little bird, chirping back her inane phrases. And when reality was too harsh? Let`s make up a kiss. That will cover it! _So he never really wanted me, he was just a broken man seeking comfort or release. And I thought he was the only one who just wanted me, not my inheritance or political worth._ The thought made her cringe inwardly.

She tugged her cloak around her, her face in the deep shadows of the hood, hiding the tears sliding silently down her cheeks. Walking rapidly in ankle-deep snow towards the horse-lines, she ignored the greetings that followed her through the camp. Sandor had already foddered their horses, but thankfully was nowhere to be seen. She dried her childish tears and picked up a brush, starting on the morning’s grooming, brushing the snow off Guardian’s back. He nuzzled her hand happily, and scratched his head on her shoulder. She groomed him, readying him for the day’s work, trying to get a grip of herself.

Stranger snorted at her from his tether, nodding his head. “Ah, you want your apple, don`t you, boy.” Sniffling, she searched her pockets for the two pieces she`d kept for the horses. Giving one to Guardian, she looked at Stranger. She`d found out that part of the trick of dealing with the stallion was ignoring most of his tantrums, not unlike ignoring Sandor’s snarling and barking.

Feeling miserable, she walked closer, not looking the Stranger in the eye. She couldn`t help but snort at that. After all, who _would_ like to look The Stranger in the eye? _Me, right now, it doesn`t matter anyway, all life gives me is… shit._ Making him at ease by acting unthreateningly, she held her hand out to him, showing him the apple. He topped his ears. Waiting for the pain of losing her fingers, she closed her eyes and gave it to him… and felt Stranger gently eat the apple out of her hand.

Slowly she opened her eyes. “You`re one strange Stranger, do you know that?” she whispered. The handsome horse looked expectantly at her. “No, I don`t have any more. Food is scarce.” She lifted her hand and stroked him slowly down his neck, waiting for the explosion. None came. He laid his ears back, and bit the air, but let her touch him. She started brushing him with even, gentle strokes. “You`re quite like your owner, totally unpredictable and quite aggressive. I find myself thankful just to be allowed to touch you two.” Stroking the snow off his thick winter-fur with her hand before moving towards his hind-legs, she slowly worked her way around him. She even picked his hoofs carefully, ready to get away if he suddenly decided to kick her for good measure, until he too stood clean and ready for work.

 

Later, she sat cold and unhappy at the fire, waiting for Rhys to start shouting orders for them to leave camp. Jaime was in an annoyingly good mood, flashing his even teeth at her and Brienne, making Brienne smile and Sansa scowl. Sandor had still not showed up.

Jaime looked at her. “What`s the matter? You`re starting to behave like Clegane, and that’s not a good thing.” She glowered at him, thinking learning to stab people really wasn`t that bad an idea. Jaime started to look concerned. “Really, Sansa, what`s wrong?” To her horror the compassion in his voice was enough to make tears well in her eyes.

“Nothing,” she said, voice quavering, giving herself the lie. Brienne looked crestfallen, fiddling with her sword. Jaime just jumped to the correct conclusion.

“Right. What has he said or done to you?” Sansa started to get herself under control once more, drying her eyes.

“Nothing,” she repeated, trying to smile.

Jaime didn`t look fooled, but just then a shout came from the other side of the camp. They had come across several more patrols from the Vale, the positive side being that the mountain-clans were staying away. So Sansa thought it would only be another line up, and dried her tears rapidly. It turned out Ryhs wanted to reach an inn for the night, after getting word of clansmen attacking another merchant right before the last pass. It would be a day of hard traveling. And Ryhs was already purple with agitation. Sansa sighed inwardly, getting to her feet, when Sandor came striding into view looking murderous.

“You!” he said pointing at her. “Come with me!” Jaime decided to act the chivalrous knight he was supposed to be, and went to stand before her, earning a glare of pure contempt from Sandor. “And what the fuck do you imagine you`re doing, _ser?_ ” the former Lannister guard-dog growled, mouth twitching. Jaime smiled his most winning smile.

“It might be a good idea to calm down a bit, Clegane,” he tried in a friendly tone, laying his hand on Sandor’s shoulder, as if to turn him away from her. Sandor erupted. He flung Jaime’s hand away, and grabbed the front his coat.

“Back the fuck off,” he snarled viciously, his face an inch from Jaime’s, before he shoved the knight backwards into Brienne.

Brienne and Jaime instantly flew into stance before her again, Jaime looking furious, but Sansa had had enough. She was suddenly so angry at Sandor for _everything,_ that she completely lost it.

“It`s all right, I`ll go with him,” she flung at the people trying to protect her, pushing through them.

“Are you sure?” Brienne said, just as Jaime said. “I don`t think this is wise.”

“Leave me!” Sansa growled at them. Sandor grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him. Trying to keep up with his long strides, she felt like a child being dragged to her room.

He stopped behind a wagon, slamming her back into it.

“What?!” she demanded, “could possibly be worth this insane behaviour?”

Sandor pinned her to the wagon with his hands on either side of her face. The cold fury in his eyes was unnerving, burned side of his mouth twitching. “What in the seven buggering hells have you done to my horse?” he growled at her. _Oh my!_ She stared stubbornly back at him, anger churning in her chest. “You`ve fucking _braided_ my courser!”

“Yes, I did!” she shouted, and tried to push him away from her. She could just as well have tried to move a boulder.

“How did you bloody well manage that?” he roared back at her, starting to look slightly puzzled as well as angry.

“It`s easy, I can teach it to you if you want to learn,.” she sneered back at him. _Septa Mordane would have a fit if she could see me now._

“Fuck, you`re stupid!” he snarled, showing his teeth as he talked. _Bad sign._ “Don`t you realize he could have killed you, you silly little idiot?”

Sansa felt her hackles rise.“Don`t you _dare_ call me such things. I`m not a child anymore! I know the risk! I`ve had ten days to wriggle myself into your mean horse’s good graces, feeding him apples and talking to him. He _let_ me touch him. I`ve brushed him down for you today, for heavens’ sake, not just braided his mane!”

Sandor looked like she`d given him a full-arm slap across the face. “Wonderful! You`ve used the last ten days to ruin an expensive, highly trained warhorse, just so you could braid his mane. And you`ve done it for _me?_ ” he shouted, stepping away from her before punching the side of the wagon, making one of the boards break. “He`s _supposed_ to be a nightmare to be around! He`s a weapon of war, not some pet! Fucking hells!” He looked like he wanted to smash something else, breathing hard, staring at her with pure loathing in his eyes.

Sansa felt tears running down her cheeks again. “I thought you would be pleased he was ready to be saddled up, that’s all!” Her voice was thick and shaking, to her own disgust. “Most warhorses can be managed by people other than their owners, and it doesn`t ruin them! But that’s the problem, is it not? You two are so alike! You`re only comfortable as a weapon of war, being able to frighten the… shit… out of people, being a cruel, vicious beast! A nightmare! So your horse should act the same? Is that it?” she was tearing up inside, sobbing helplessly.

Sandor sauntered back to her, face twisted into a frightening grimace, cold, grey eyes boiling with badly suppressed rage, lowering his mouth threateningly to her ear. “I am a cruel, vicious and brutal weapon of war. A nightmare, just like my horse. I am what this shitty world demands of me. And this beast is trying to keep your pretty little neck intact until someone else can take over that responsibility,” he snarled at her. “I even fucking warmed your supple body this morning. Don`t you think I could just as easily have had my way with you?”

Sansa was sobbing, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She turned her face into his hair, and sneered back with all the contempt she could muster. “You don`t want me anyway, so that’s hardly an achievement, now, is it?”

He gave her a laugh like snarling dogs in a pit, that she hadn`t heard for so long, and straightened to his full height, looking coldly down at her. “ _Stupid_ girl. I don`t know why I bother trying to keep you safe. What use could a fool like you be to a north in ruins.”

That stung so bad she sobbed harder, trying not to laugh hysterically back at him.

“Get your ugly face away from me. Go… Go to hell!” she cried, wanting him to hurt as much as she did.

He just snorted softly. “You`re my own personal hell, Little Bird, believe that.” And then he was gone, leaving her to sink to the ground, crying alone against the wheel of the wagon.


	13. Pain and salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Sansa was sitting crying helplessly on the ground next to the wagon when Brienne and Jaime came leading Guardian, ready for the road. She tried to calm down, sniffled and wiped her face with her sleeve, but the tears kept running down her cheeks. Embarrassed that they should see her like this, she stroked the horse’s neck and kissed his forehead. “Thank you for bringing him,” she said tremulously, annoying herself no end. Brienne stood fretting anxiously over her, clearly not knowing what to say. Jaime looked at the ground, and then at her, emerald eyes worried

“Here, girl,” he sighed and cautiously embraced her. He felt just like Robb once had, brotherly and concerned. She found herself leaning in to him, crying all over again and he held her gently until she had herself under control once more, before removing his arms. “I have no idea what you argued about, but… Sansa, Clegane has never been kind in his ways. He`s worth his unknown weight in gold for his sword and his skills on this journey, but he will never be easy to handle.”

Sansa tried to smile through her tears. “I know. I know how he is,” she said. “I… I braided Stranger.”

Jaime started to laugh, rich and honest, making Brienne look really worried. “You two are insane! Are you telling me you`re having this row over a plaited courser?” he asked incredulously.

Despite everything, Sansa burst out laughing too, while drying her tears. “Yes.”

She felt better riding down the road with Jaime and Brienne towering on either side of her. Sandor rode talking to Rhys at the foremost wagon, before being sent down the line, trotting from wagon to wagon, saying something to each of the drivers. When he reached the three of them he paused, giving her a flat, hard stare, making her insides brim with despair once more. He addressed Jaime.

“Rhys wants us to push the whole fucking traveling show up to full speed, when the road evens out.” His breath misted out of the hood of his cloak. He shifted his gaze to her, emotions starting to boil, the wrath and… _hurt?_ made her want to cry and shout at him again. “That will be your exercise for today, squire. Keep up or be tied to a wagon.”

“Clegane,” Jaime said, smiling wryly, looking every inch a knight from the stories, “Try to keep your temper in check, you`re a bit too harsh with the boy.”

Sandor rode up to him, looking down into Jaime’s face. “Stay out of this, One Paw,” he rasped coldly, reining in Stranger before Jaime’s honour got even more frayed around the edges.

Jaime shook his head. “You, squire, don`t plait your master’s frightening horse. And Clegane, next time she braids him, go cut Guardian’s mane off in return, instead of making a scene.” Sandor sent her a disgusted glance from the depth of his hood before riding on.

Full speed turned out to be half an hour trotting, and then dismount from the horses and run with them for half an hour more, followed by riding half an hour at a walk and half an hour running beside the mounts again. It was then time for a quick pause and change of teams on the wagons. That way, they could keep the pace for the whole day, without having mounts dropping dead from exhaustion. Everyone stopped talking and concentrated on the task at hand. The creaking of snow beneath boots and hoofs, the wagons’ rumbling, heavy breathing from the humans and snorts from the horses filling the cold, crisp air. Sansa though she would die after the first repetition, but refused to back out and let Sandor have the satisfaction of tying her up. He would do it, she was sure.

She tried to keep her attention on the beautiful landscape around her. After descending down to the bottom of the pass by the twisting and turning mountain road, the valley opened up before them. The white snow glittered in the bleak sun, every small, gnarled tree or bush was coated in crystallized frost, looking like brilliant clear quartz growing from the branches.

Her breath was misting before her as she ran side by side with Guardian, thankful she was not in the first row, trampling the snow. In a way she suddenly discovered just how handsome her horse was, by seeing him in movement while she was on the ground. He trotted faithfully beside her, ears topped happily, never coming too close but neither lagging behind or dragging her forwards. All in all, she could concentrate on surviving this murderous exercise without adding a battle with eighty stone of horse to it. Sandor had really picked the perfect mount for her… _No! I`m mad at him, no appeasing circumstances._

So she locked her gaze on Sandor’s broad back, thinking that if he could run for hours in armour, she could manage well enough in breeches. But as the day went over into evening, it became harder and harder to keep up when it was time to run again. “Come on, Sansa. We`ll soon be on the horses,” Brienne smiled encouragingly, her hair plastered to her skull with sweat. “Try to think that the pain doesn`t matter, focus on something else.” Amazingly, Sansa managed to keep up, and they left the deep valley of the last mountain pass behind just as the sun turned the peaks on either side a deep purple.

They walked the last hour to the inn. Relieved Sansa staggered into the common room after rubbing Guardian dry. Sandor had taken care of Stranger himself, not even looking at her. The inn was spacious, made to hold the large parties of men and horses, who meant to take on the mountain road. A wide fireplace provided a warm and inviting atmosphere, and the Innkeeper was neat and pleasant. When he told them the bathwater was nearly ready, she felt like she could kiss him.

 

****

 

Sandor felt like shit. The whole bloody day had been agony, from waking up to Sansa demanding he warm her. Fucking hell, just sleeping next to her made the nights frustrating. He`d held her, trying desperately to stay his treacherous thoughts, and not start thinking of how near she was, how it would feel to make her moan so prettily for him again. When dawn finally arrived he`d been so hard it had started to hurt.

He`d gathered the last of his wits and headed for the picket lines to feed their horses. Unfortunately, walking and doing chores was next to impossible with his painfully hard cock. So he ended up striding, swearing under his breath, to some large boulders a distance from the campsite. Mercifully it had stopped snowing, at least. _Bloody hells._ Wondering how she could arouse him so enormously, he`d finally freed his cock, and standing up against the side of one of the large rocks, he`d stroked his heavy, too-hard manhood, spreading the wetness already seeping out with his thumb. He throbbed at the thought of how she`d pressed her hands to his back when he`d been between her long legs, and picked up speed, closing his hand harder around himself. Fucking his hand, like his wished he could have fucked her, he`d found his release, grabbing hold of the rock for support as waves of pleasure pulsed through him, making him groan through gritted teeth.

And that was about everything that had gone the way he wanted that day. The fear that had shot through him when he found that braid in Stranger’s mane had made him nauseous, and then angry. All the images of what could have happened to Sansa fanned the anger into a blazing rage. How stupid could she be? He’d thought they had an agreement for her to feed the horse by fucking broomstick. He`d actually laughed when she`d explained it to him. And then she risked her life for a braid?

He should have thought things through. _You stupid idiot._ But he`d gone to talk some sense into her at once, still seething. Jaime interfering had only made him furious, making him rougher than he`d intended. Then Sansa had started snarling at him before he could say anything, and everything from then on had just been a bloody mess.

He`d tried to explain that he was only trying to keep her safe for fuck’s sake, but that had only made her cry angrily at him. He`d made her cry! While trying to take care of her! _Fucking hell!_ And she`d just snarled at his attempt at doing the right thing, controlling himself as best he could. What did she mean by he “didn`t want her?” He could hardly walk straight after ten buggering days watching her in breeches. Being so close while teaching her yesterday had been blissful agony, thank all seven heavens and a couple of hells too, that he`d thought to bring Brienne along, or the whole thing could have turned out really embarrassing.

She`d really told him how she felt, now, though, hadn`t she? Told him to go to hell and get his ugly face out of her sight. She`d certainly stopped chirping, that`s for sure. He just hadn`t been prepared for the immense pain. He knew she would never be his, he had a brain after all, but it was something else to hear her say it with such loathing. And now, his whole being felt like it was being torn to pieces, every buggering part of him screaming for it to end. Nothing mattered anymore. The sentences kept repeating themselves again and again and again in his head. He couldn`t stop thinking about it, the disgust on her face as she`d said it, the heat in her voice. His vision had contracted and it had felt as though the ground moved, before everything snapped back into focus, except he couldn`t breathe and his insides were a churning, fucking chaos from all seven hells at once.

The raging ball of emotions inside him, expanded until it was all he could do to hold on to reality. Running intervals the whole day hadn`t helped, trying to outrun her voice, trying to breathe, nothing helped. He felt trapped in his own body, the feeling increasing with every passing hour. Looking at her was agony, knowing she was there was even worse. Knowing he could never outrun himself made him want to howl. He tried to work himself into a daze, lifting his legs higher when he ran, taking the first row, adding the untouched snow to the exercise. But _nothing helped,_ because her print was inside him, and she`d told him to go to hell. And she`d cried. And he wanted to hold her more than anything. But it was not he that had held her, it was Jaime. He was desperate for a way out of this shivering inner misery, feeling panic rise with the churning of his stomach and the bile in his throat.

When he at last stomped into the room he was sharing with Jaime, Sandor tossed his saddlebags on the floor and turned to the lad showing them the room. “Wine,” he rasped, searching for the only way out he knew. “You`re on duty tonight, Lion.”

Just talking to the blasted man right now was too much. All he could see was Jaime’s arms around Sansa. When she cried. _I made her bloody cry, too._

The lion looked at him doubtfully. “Clegane… I haven`t seen you drunk the whole of this trip…”

Sandor couldn`t breathe at all now, he needed that wine so badly. “Well you`re fucking about to now,” he said, hearing the strain and need in his own voice, not caring what Jaime bloody Lannister thought about it. Trying to get air into his lungs, he waited desperately for the knock on the door.

When a serving wench at long last came with the wine, he snatched the jug from her hand and put it to his lips, drinking it down in large gulps, the sour taste as soothing as a woman’s cunt. He finished it, and gave the jug back to her. “Keep it flowing,” he said and tossed some silver at the wench.

He washed and dressed in clean clothes feeling the wine work its way through his body, slowly loosening the irongrip around his chest, not doing anything for the raging chaos inside. They were as safe as they could be here, surrounded by Rhys’ guards. Jaime and Brienne would take care of Sansa, and he needed to get away from everything, needed to forget. He kept drinking fast from the jugs left by the serving woman, waiting for relief, waiting for the pain to recede. And by the time they went downstairs for food, he had to concentrate to avoid letting the effect of all that wine show.

He ate in silence, continuing to drink hard, ignoring Jaime’s glances from the other side of the table. But when his Little Bird came downstairs with Brienne, he felt like someone had beaten him bloody all over again. His insides turned at the sight of the much redder tresses poking out from her woollen cap, too. _Oh no don`t… don`t get your hair-colour back just now…_ She`d obviously washed part of the dye out. She saw him staring and glanced quickly at the wine at his side, taking in the state of him before slowly lowering herself down beside Jaime.

Jealousy flared hot and strong in him, the image of Jaime holding her in his arms suddenly too vivid in his mind. And she had let him do it. His Little Bird. The chaos roared in him, anger and jealousy feeding each other, and the shivering misery made him fucking nauseous. Brienne looked at him tentatively, as if she didn`t know if it was safe to sit beside him right now. He snorted at her.

“I`ll get out of your way.”

He heard how the words came out slightly slurred, but didn`t care. The pit in his stomach screamed for more wine, the chaos churned and his mind repeated what he tried to forget in a never-ending spiral. Making his way over to another table, he concluded that if he could walk this straight, he wasn`t drunk enough, feeling the pull for more.

He sat down with a group of sellswords trying to drink themselves into stupors with equal enthusiasm. Drinking in long pulls, he emptied cup after cup of the fucking cat’s piss they called wine hereabouts until the first time he retched, managing to avoid vomiting by a fingernail. After that he drank slow, but steady. And mercifully soon the world started fading pleasantly into a foggy verisimilitude of reality, a blissful numbness, finally giving him rest from himself.


	14. Drunk as a dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Sansa had enjoyed her bath as long as possible, and had even brushed over her dirty squire’s clothes before putting them on again. Brienne had lent her a clean tunic and smallclothes, and even if it was far too big for her, she felt better. But her argument with Sandor kept resurfacing. She was trying not to think about it, but it was hard when feeling so upset. She was torn between hoping he would be in a better mood when she went downstairs, so they at least could try to work things out between them again, and not wanting to ever talk to him again. But of course, she knew the last option was no option at all. She already missed him.

How could he say such things to her? He hadn`t told her she was stupid since King’s Landing. She`d thought it had to do with the chirping… But growling that she was so stupid she would be of no use to the north? She felt anger rise in her again. He knew very well she was resourceful and intelligent, he`d even started talking to her with respect. How could a braid in Strangers mane ruin all that? And it didn`t excuse his behaviour… or hers. Damn. She hadn`t behaved in a very ladylike manner, had she? But even if she could ignore that he`d called her a stupid idiot, the quiet sincerity in his voice as he`d told her she was his own personal hell was too painful. It made tears well in her eyes instantly.

Blinking them away, she wondered how best to approach this problem, and the massive _frustrating_ man who surely sat eating his supper right now. She wanted to make up with him again, but if he thought he could sit there behaving like he`d done nothing wrong, all impassive, staring down his nose at her from his great height… She would make him pay for weeks.

Brienne was buckling on her swordbelt again, and she smiled at Sansa. “Want to go downstairs for some food?” Sansa’s belly grumbled loudly in reply.

As they walked down the hallway, Sansa started feeling curiously nervous at seeing Sandor again, to her own immense irritation. Trying to regain the resolution from her room upstairs, she glanced around the common room after her two male traveling companions. Sandor sat facing the door, brooding sullenly as he ate with his eyes on the food. Jaime was quiet as well. _Not in a good mood, then._

Sighing inwardly she walked towards them, Sandor stared at her hair, now more auburn than brown, but his eyes were bloodshot and he moved a bit too studiously. _He`s drunk._ Looking at his wine cup and the empty jug at his side, and then back at his angry eyes, she sat slowly beside Jaime, not knowing how to handle this. Of all the things she had imagined for tonight, she had forgotten this possibility. Sandor’s face darkened, and he somehow managed to radiate danger without moving a muscle. Brienne obviously felt it too, because she paused for a moment instead of taking a seat beside him.

Sandor snorted in his most familiar way, measuring Brienne in a glance. He got to his feet, grabbed his cup and rolled his massive shoulders at the large woman. “I`ll get out of your way.” He slurred his words slightly, but even if his hard, grey eyes were beginning to get hazy with drink, every word dripped with contempt. He walked steady enough, but it was something in the way he sat down at another table that made Sansa suspect this was not his first jug of wine.

She turned to Jaime. “How much has he had to drink?” Jaime regarded her over his own wine.

“What did you two actually argue about?” he said instead of answering her. Sansa felt like he had slapped her.

“I… we _did_ argue about me braiding Stranger… but it might have got a bit out of hand…” She heard how foolish it sounded. Jaime raised his brow at her.

“Right,” he said, drinking the rest of his wine down. “I was roughly informed that Brienne and I have the honour of guarding you tonight, because Clegane has every intension of getting drunk.” He looked at Brienne. “And that`s saying something. He is famous for drinking winehouses dry. Drunk as a dog doesn`t cover it.” Emerald eyes on Sansa again he continued. “The irksome thing is, I haven`t seen him drunk since we met up again beyond Quiet Island. Until now, when you two started shouting at each other.” Sansa suddenly didn`t feel hungry anymore. “I`m not defending his solution to the problem, far from it, but I can`t help but wonder what you said to make him lose it.”

Sansa glanced over to the table where Sandor was rapidly drinking down everything put in front of him, eyes on the table top. “He said I was stupid, because I could have been killed, and then he got mad at me for ruining his warhorse, and then I called him lots of mean things… and he wondered what the north needed a fool like me for, and then I told him to get his ugly face away from me… and bid him… to go to… h... hell,” she said in a whisper. “He told me I was his own personal hell, just before he left.” Looking down at her hands fiddling with her belt, she wondered how it was possible to be as rude to each other as they had been. Saying it out loud made her own words so much worse, too. Why couldn`t she manage to hold on to her courtesy around Sandor nowadays, when she`d managed it perfectly before? She braved a look at Jaime again. He wore an anguished expression, looking between her and Sandor.

“Oh, poor sod…” he said at last, softly. “No, don`t ask, it`s his to deal with as he wishes.”

Watching Sandor drinking himself senseless was agonizing. Jaime and Brienne seemed never to run out of topics to discuss, and were soon eagerly squabbling over some highly annoying braavosi Jaime had once met. Sansa sipped her wine, and tried to look interested, all the while shooting glances across the room. That was why she saw the men approaching Sandor before he did.

“You, large fucker! Is it true you won the melee at the Vale?” one brutish looking man said, strutting slightly for more height. Sandor lifted his gaze slowly, and snorted at the sight of them. Even when so drunk he could hardly speak, he somehow managed to look terrifying.

“If you`re as stupid as you look, and are thinking of picking a fight with me… run! While you still can,” he slurred, before returning to his wine. The common-room had gone quiet. The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Even if you did win the melee, you should watch that ugly mouth of yours. We`re three and you are too drunk for your attitude.” Sansa wasn`t sure, but she thought she saw Sandor smile through his hair. It frightened her. He got unsteadily to his feet, trying to focus on the man in front of him.

“The last man who told me I was too drunk to fight, died quickly.” He slurred his words, but the smile on his lips was malicious. _Oh no, he really wants this fight!_

Jaime threw himself from their table, Brienne at his heels, while Sansa anxiously waited for the disaster to unfold. The brutish man had already punched after Sandor, who reeled sideways hitting the wall, making the sod miss. Laughingly he unleashed a rapid succession of blows and kicks, turning on the two other lowlifes as the first man fell. They jumped on him fists flying and got rewarded with heavy blows in return, Jaime and Brienne joined in, and suddenly the whole common room seemed to erupt. Chairs and tables overturned, and the noise was unbelievable. Sansa just thanked the Gods, new and old, for the fact that it seemed to only be a fistfight, no steel going flashing just yet.

Sandor was in the midst of the fighting beating every person too close to him, seemingly enjoying himself. He got hit in return, being way to slow to react, but it didn`t seem to affect him in any other way than trigging his aggression. Trying to stay out of harm’s way, Sansa edged toward the stairs, but was brutally grabbed from behind. She turned around frightened and received a blow right in her face, making her howl in agony. Blinded, she threw her arms up to shield herself, feeling the second blow graze her underarm. The only thing she could get her head around was his name. “Sandor!” was all she managed to scream, at the top of her lungs, while her vision slowly cleared.

The man standing over her grinned down at her with an ugly expression, grabbing the front of her coat and hitching her up against the wall for more blows. Behind him she saw Sandor fix bleary eyes on her, and something snapped. Roaring like an animal, he punched the guy he held and threw him aside, before grabbing the nearest chair landing brutal blows on everyone between him and her, wading through the fight and launching himself at her attacker. Sandor wrenched the man away from her and smashed his forehead into the man’s nose, but didn`t stop at that. He continued roaring while he kicked and hit his victim bloody. Sansa cried out to him, but he didn`t seem to hear, blood spurting over his face from the man who lay still beneath him. She knew he was killing the man with his bare hands, and didn`t know what to do about it. Tears leaking from her eyes, she jumped up on his back, folding her arms around his neck. He turned around, lightning quick, grabbed her hard and was about to hit her too, when the fog lifted from his eyes. He stopped the blow a bit too close for comfort. “Little Bird,” he slurred, falling backwards into a sitting position, hugging her to him. She tried not to think of the blood on his fists and face, and hugged him back, crying out when her bruised cheek was pressed towards him.

By then the fight seemed at an end, two large stable-hands had come running at the innkeeper’s desperate summons, armed with pitchforks. “Fucking peasants,” Sandor slurred with contempt. Sansa laughed, holding her cheek, and somehow found it impossible to muster any anger for their row earlier when faced with this drunk dog who held her so sweetly, grumbling abuse at the ones come to clean up after him.

Brienne and Jaime came laughing back at them, too, Brienne nursing a split lip. Jaime grinned at Sandor. “Really, you drunk fucker! Do you have any idea what a great thing a fistfight is, when the hand you`re using to punch the bastards with is made of gold?” He looked awfully happy, while a purple bruise was blooming on his cheek. Brienne shook her head at him, and playfully punched his upper arm. He grinned back at her, and laid his arm around her shoulders. “My best fighting partner!” He kissed her cheek, and she blushed like a sunset. “Sorry Clegane, you won`t get a kiss, you hit too hard and at everything that moves.”

Sandor chuckled, but didn’t let go of her, holding onto her like she was the most important thing in the world. Sansa looked properly at him. He had a gash over one eye, and a bruise over his good temple. She wondered how many bruises he had beneath his clothes… _Ah, no, don`t start thinking of him without clothes._ He spit blood onto the floor, grinning red at her. Still as drunk as a dog, eyes unable to focus properly on her. “How do you manage to fight when you can hardly stand?” she asked from his lap.

“Instincts,” he slurred back at her, spitting again. She rose, trying to drag him to his feet. Brienne had to help before they managed to get him up. The rest of the common room was also checking bruises, getting to their feet, and servants were starting to clean the mess up around them.

The innkeeper was watching furiously from the kitchen-door. The man who had challenged Sandor in the first place was carried out, still out cold. Someone dragged away the man who had hit her, too. She didn`t want to know if he was alive or dead. Sandor took several steps reeling sideways before he managed to get going in the direction of the innkeeper. The man started backing into his kitchen before Sandor lifted his hands. Reaching for his pouch he got out a handful of coins. Without looking at it, he thrust the silver at the innkeeper. “Here, want no trouble. This should cover it,” he said, slurring like mad.

“Come now, Clegane. You need to go to bed,” Jaime said, smiling amusedly at him.

“No, I need to take a piss.” Sandor muttered, heading for the door.

“Brilliant idea!” Jaime grinned, telling Sansa and Brienne with his eyes that he went with him to keep an eye on him.

Sansa grabbed his sleeve. “I need to stitch that gash. Knock on my door when you come upstairs.”

Brienne followed her into the room, still looking flushed from Jaime’s kiss. Sansa wondered if she was in love with him. That would have the men laughing, if they found out both the women secretly wanted them. Sansa went to find a needle and thread, still rummaging around in her saddlebag when Jaime entered, dragging a staggering Sandor after him.

“Sit down,” Sansa commanded pointing at her bed. Sandor snorted at her tone, but did as he was bid, slumping down on her blankets. “I need some hot water, and boiled wine,” she said as she started studying the gash. Brienne and Jaime disappeared, leaving them alone. “Why is it you always smell of wine and blood when you`re on my bed?” she murmured as she gently tried to decide how deep it was. He stiffened beside her, but then just shrugged drunkenly, trying to focus on her again.

“You got a bruise,” he rasped, touching her lightly.

“I hope the man who gave it to me got his life,” she replied. He chuckled darkly.  


Brienne arrived with water and wine, blushing even more than she had downstairs. “I need to… I mean… Jaime needs help, and… I`ll be right back,” she stammered before slamming the door shut.

Sansa washed Sandor’s face, and made him wash his hands as well, thinking his knuckles would look… colourful… tomorrow. Then she started cleaning the wound. Sandor sat quietly, but swayed slightly, making it hard to get the angle right. “Sit still”, she murmured, trying to concentrate with the warmth radiating from his body.

“Easy for you to say,” he grumbled back, staring at her breasts. She grinned inwardly, and with great care stroked one of her breasts against his arm, concealing it as a part of cleaning the wound. She heard him drag in a ragged breath. _He wants me! Might be drunk, but he wants me!_ Threading the needle, she considered her options.

She seated herself astride him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His breath grew uneven, as he looked searchingly at her. She met his frustrated, drunken gaze and saw it fill with need. “Sit still,” she repeated, and started sewing him up, with small, precise stitches, feeling him harden underneath her. It made her body respond with a tingling rush, making her ache between her legs. Her own breath grew shallow, and he noticed, dead drunk or not. He made a small sound in the back of his throat and stroked her thigh with his fingertips, sending red hot shots of lust right between her legs. She reluctantly climbed off him when she was finished stitching him up, blushing with arousal.

Sandor tried to stand, but reeled backwards into her bed again. “Seven save me,” he groaned and touched his head. The excitement from the fight seemed to drain away from him, leaving him looking in severe need of sleep. She was beginning to wonder how in the Maiden’s name she could manage to get him to his room, when he reached out and pulled her towards him, dragging them both down on her bed. She gasped, trying to get up again, but he wrapped his arms around her holding her down. One handed, he dragged her cap off and released her hair from its braid, twining her tresses around his fingers, pressing her into him. He buried his face in her neck and sighed deeply, and then promptly fell asleep.

Sansa didn`t quite know what to do. Brienne could turn up any moment, and his swordhilt and dagger dug painfully into her skin. _Be grateful his not aroused anymore as well…_ Slowly she managed to untangle herself from his heavy arms. Getting his swordbelt off proved difficult, but manageable. The bloodied coat was another matter, but after much struggling she managed that too. She cleaned the worst of the blood off it, and pulled off his boots, before putting the washbasin by the bed in case he had any plans to vomit. He would need water sooner or later, so she put that on the bedside. Lastly, and guiltily, she borrowed a blanket from Brienne’s bed and blew out the candles. Then she snuggled up against Sandor’s sleeping body, putting his arms around her again. He was snoring softly by then, so she stroked his hair, thinking Brienne could have a fit if she wanted, before finally letting sleep claim her, too.


	15. Bloody brilliant hangover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Sandor woke in the middle of the night, feeling nauseous beyond belief, with a pounding head and a queer feeling making the beginning of his hangover complete. He groaned and tried to sit up in the bed, only to find that he wasn`t alone in it. Surprised, he looked to his side and he wondered if he`d managed to pay himself into a serving wench’s cunt yesterday. Instead he found his Little Bird sleeping sweetly on his arm. Her face buried in the crook of his neck, arms around him, her breathing slow and even. It felt so heartbreakingly good, he nearly bolted. This was the same Little Bird who quite clearly had told him to bugger his ugly face off to hell the morning before. _How in the Stranger’s name did this happen?_

After he`d lost his temper with her, he`d thought she`d be the frosty noblewoman with him from then on. But now she lay snuggled against him, erasing all traces of pain and misery just by being there. Trying to sort out exactly what had happened since they reached the inn, he gingerly felt his face and ribs. Adding up the bruises and swellings to his already burgeoning hangover, he concluded it had been one hell of a night, including getting into a fight at some point… and needing to be stitched together again apparently. Hazy images of Sansa sitting astride him, sewing him up, came to mind. _Oh seven hells._

He was definitely not in the room he shared with Jaime, and Sansa slept beside him, so it should be the women’s room. _Where the fuck is Brienne?_ He would get hours of preaching about his lack of honour for this. Feeling anxious, he lifted the blanket covering them, relief with a whisper of disappointment flooding him when he found they were both dressed. And she was still there, so he hadn`t done something impressively stupid in his wine-haze. He tried moving onto his side, wanting to be even closer to her, but swallowed hard as his stomach turned, bile and panic rising as he desperately struggled to free his arm without waking Sansa. Swallowing repeatedly he managed to get out of bed, reeling as he reached the floor. _Still not sober in any way, then._ Mercifully, he reached the privy before his belly emptied itself. And knowing from experience that the worst was yet to come when sobering properly up, Sandor let it run its course.

Feeling somewhat better, he found himself standing hesitantly in front of her door. He _should_ go back to the room he shared with Jaime, but… he wanted to lay next to Sansa. And she _had_ stayed with him instead of sharing a bed with Brienne. He took a deep breath and walked silently into the room, thinking it would be worth all the hell he was bound to pay for it.

Looking down at her sleeping form in the darkness, long hair in a tangle around her, he felt tumbling waves of emotion roll through him, ending up high in his chest. A glance at Brienne’s bed, finding it empty, had told him Sansa actually shared a bed with him by choice. And she had stitched him up, and he had loosened her hair… _Shit._ He went in search of a wash basin, and found it next to the bed. _Clever Bird._ He grinned inwardly and washed the lower part of his face and hands as silently as he could, feeling the water and soap sting the scrapes on his knuckles. Then he scrubbed his teeth, and drank the water she had put on the bedside.

Thinking he couldn`t be more presentable right now, he laid down next to her, gently lifting her up on his arm again. She sighted so prettily, and turned towards him in her sleep, putting her own arms around him. It felt so good! Too fucking good. He shouldn`t be doing this at all, but he simply didn`t care. _It`s one night. I haven`t forced myself on her or anything, and tomorrow she will probably wake up and get the fuck away from me._ But right now she lay in his arms, all soft curves and firmness in a disturbingly good combination, nearly-auburn tresses tousled. He pressed her gently against him, and she shifted slightly in her sleep, adjusting herself to his body. He couldn`t help himself and bent his neck to kiss the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her, feeling like his chest would burst from the whirlwind of bliss his Little Bird created in him.

The next time he woke, bleak sunshine hit his face and Sansa was stroking his back. Not opening his eyes, he enjoyed her hands on his body, until he started to feel aroused. Thinking that would be more than unwise, he opened his eyes and looked at her. Sansa sat beside him on the bed and smiled slightly at him.

“Good morning,” she said brightly and stopped touching him. It left him feeling empty, he wanted her caress so much it bloody disgusted him. Trying to get a grip, he raised himself up on his elbows, testing how bad the hangover actually was. His head pounded like a fiery hell, and nothing else seemed in order, either.

“Oh, bugger this,” he swore hoarsely, letting himself fall down again.

He rubbed his face where it didn`t hurt, trying to work up something to say. “Can`t remember shit from last night. I`ve obviously been drinking and fighting, and somehow woke up in bed with you,” he grumbled. “Thought you didn`t want anything to do with me.” He looked at her again, for some reason feeling anxious. Sansa gazed at him, face serene, but somehow he thought she was laughing at him.

“Well, you certainly managed to get drunk. And you got into a fight, we all did.” She turned her head and pointed at a puffy purple and blue cheek. That got him going, sitting up far too quickly, groaning as his head protested most vigorously. He reached out for her and, incredibly enough, she let him drag her close to him to touch her swollen cheek.

“Seven hells. I can`t put Jaime on duty for one night without you getting a beating. I`ll fucking rip his head off!”

She smiled wryly. “No, you won`t. After all, you wanted that fight,” she said. A dreadful thought passed Sandor’s mind.

“It wasn`t me, was it?” Just the thought made him retch. He got clumsily out of bed and wrenched up the window, spewing the rest of last night down to the ground below. Spitting, he cursed the lack of memory, dreading the answer. Her hand touched his back again, stroking him. _Seven hells, why are you touching me when I`m in this state?_

“Here, water. No, of course it wasn`t you. You beat the man who did it so severely that I don`t think he`s still alive.”

He wanted to growl at her to go away, stop looking at him emptying himself, but his head hurt too bloody much for agitated speech. Turning slowly towards her he vaguely remembered beating somebody bloody. “What are you doing here with me, Little Bird?” he rasped, puzzled, drinking the water she offered slowly. “You told me to bugger off, I get drunk and beat someone for you, and then you stitch me up happily and crawl into bed with me.” He retrieved his coat from a stool and met her eyes searchingly. She blushed prettily at him.

“I didn`t _crawl_ into bed with you. You dragged me.” _Oh fuck, that`s right!_ He heard himself laugh, embarrassed, and tried to hide it by sitting down on the bed to pull on his boots. Had he taken them off himself? _No…_ Looking at Sansa through the hair hanging down in his face as he laced his boots, he wondered how much trouble she`d had with him yesterday. Why hadn`t she gotten Jaime to drag him out? She studied him back boldly, arms crossed, tapping on her lower lip thoughtfully making him all too aware of how lush her mouth was. He realized he`d stopped lacing his boots and sat staring like a fucking peasant seeing people in silk for the first time. She smiled wryly at him and raised an eyebrow, the pretty blush in her cheeks just emphasizing that she knew exactly what had gone through his mind.

“Right…” he rasped, grabbing his weapons from the floor, trying to gain safe ground and understand why she didn`t hate him anymore, why she wasn`t yelling at him for the things he`d said to her yesterday. _I made her cry for fuck’s sake._ “Time to break our fast!” He headed for the door while buckling on his swordbelt, thinking food right now would kill him straight away.

Striding down the hallway, with Sansa at his heels, they ran straight into Brienne and Jaime, both looking a bit worse for wear. They paused hesitantly, Sandor wondering why he had been so jealous yesterday. Jaime had held her. _Seven hells… but she slept in a bed with me!_

Suddenly feeling smug, looking from Jaime to Brienne, Sandor couldn`t help but snort in amusement. “So, Brienne, Maid of Tarth and Mistress of Honourable Behaviour… Didn`t sleep in your bed last night, did you?” She glowered at him, blushing furiously, making Jaime grin.

“Neither did you,” she muttered, before dragging Sansa down the stairs, apparently in need of female support. Jaime gave Sandor a shrewd glance.

“Still a maid?” he asked in a low voice, arching an eyebrow at where Sansa had disappeared. Sandor grinned, scratching his neck.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Yours?”

Jaime grinned wryly. “A maiden fair!” Sandor shook his head, and regretted it immediately.

“Fuck, we`re honourable, Lion.” Jaime laughed out loud, and told him to remember that particular sentence as he clapped him on his shoulder, steering him downstairs.

The innkeeper came bustling towards them as soon as they had taken their seats at the table. Sansa without dirt on her face looked far too pretty to be a squire, even with a bruise, but Sandor couldn`t muster enough energy to grumble. He reached for the wine to at least try to even out his massive hangover, but she quickly snatched it away from him and gave him water instead. He felt his mouth twitch irritably. “Little Bird, when did you start having a say in what I drink?” She smiled pleasantly at him.

“That would be when you started falling into my bed at night again.” Sandor winced inwardly.

“Again?” Jaime laughed incredulously, trying to contain his mirth in front of the innkeeper.

The innkeeper himself gave a little speech of the wisdom of ser’s squire, before asking them if they wanted something else. Bowls of porridge stood nauseatingly ready on the table, wine and water was served. He informed them that Rhys had decided on another night at the inn to rest the horses, before turning to Sandor, visibly bracing himself for the sight of his burnt face.

“The men who started the fight yesterday have left, and the man who beat your squire is still unconscious. I`m sure you`ll find no need to… um… correct anyone tonight, ser.” Bowing low he hurried towards the kitchen door. Sandor stared after him.

“What the fuck was all that about? When did I start to look like a buggering high lord?” Sandor asked, baffled, trying only to breath with his mouth as not to smell the porridge. Sansa and Brienne laughed shamelessly at him, while Jaime got the honour of explaining how Sandor had given the innkeeper enough silver to stay for a week after having turned the man’s common room on its head. He tried a stony glare at the Lion, but ended up grinning while he rubbed his eyes instead.

“Fucking hells… maybe they should call me the Beauty instead of you, Brienne. Guess I was pretty as shit yesterday.” Brienne grinned at him, and Jaime suggested adding Bloody to Beauty, but Sansa’s smile turned suddenly shy.

“I think you were positively sweet in comparison to the sober version of you earlier,” she said, Tully-blue eyes drowning him. And what in the Maidens teats should he make of that? That he`d been hell earlier, or that she thought him sweet when drinking himself to the floor? _Crazy Little Bird._ But she kept smiling slightly at him and it felt so good being in her good graces again, that he found himself smiling back like an utter fool. Trying to get a grip on himself, he managed to stuff a spoonful of porridge into his mouth without thinking. Trying to swallow the shit, cursing every God available, he ended up missing what Sansa was starting to say to him. Giving up all pretence he spit the whole mouthful out in his bowl again, earning a disgusted glare from Sansa and a snort from Jaime.

“Ah, feeling splendid today are we Clegane? By the Gods you look like hell,” the git said before laughing helplessly at his own joke. The worst part was that Sandor ended up laughing with him, feeling so sick it couldn`t be anything but hilarious.

“Fuck, pretty-boy, when don`t I?” he finally managed while pushing the buggering bowl of gore to the other side of the table.

“I don`t think you look like h... hell,” Sansa said in a small voice. He looked stunned at her, not knowing what to say to such mad ramblings. “I don`t!” she continued, her voice gaining strength, stubbornly staring down one incredulous looking lion. She shifted her gaze to Sandor again, “It`s only a scar, after all. I like your face.”

She could just as well have sprouted horns and flapped leathery wings for the impact it had on him. _What? Only a scar?_ Had she even thought about how much this had cost him through life? How fucking miserable it was possible to be because of _only a scar?_ And yet… Did she _like_ his face?

“What the fuck happened to me buggering my ugly face to hell, Little Bird?” he rasped, confused, knowing that his brain wasn`t working properly at this point, and he might receive one furious northern Bird pecking him on his already agonizing head for bringing it up again. She only looked at him, picking up her spoon.

“Never mind, but I thought you should know.” Right. That was bloody enlightening. “Well, as I was saying to begin with,” she continued as if she hadn`t kicked his legs out from under him and shocked Jaime and Brienne down to their fucking smallclothes, “resting the horses gives us an opportunity to relax for a day.”

“Too bloody close to the Vale,” Sandor grumbled trying to gain his footing again . “But I suppose we`re better off with this traveling nightmare for a bit longer.” The three of them ate silently, while he sat brooding over his fucking water, until a serving woman walked by smiling broadly at Jaime. Brienne stared stiffly down into her food, making Jaime glance sideways at her.

“It`s not my fault I`m being leered at,” he said at last. Brienne didn`t answer, but started stirring her porridge in a fucking _nauseating_ way instead. Jaime exchanged a glance with Sansa over the table. _When did you two start getting along so well?_ The jealousy he thought he had suppressed started growling in his chest again, and it didn`t help that she actually stood up for the Lion either, telling Brienne that people didn`t usually ask before leering at a person.

Jaime caught his sinking mood and stopped Sansa from adding examples. “Both you and me need a shave, Clegane, or else nobody will leer at us, and I apparently do _so_ love to rile Brienne on purpose,” he said sending the large wench a exasperated glance.

“I can shave you,” Sansa offered sweetly. _Do you have to smile at the buggering fucker_ all _the time?_

“You can? Brilliant!” Jaime happily ate the rest of his food, making Sandor want to break his neck noisily.

“I`ll go check the horses,” he grumbled, needing to get away from both porridge and Sansa smiling at Jaime.

“I`ll join you,” Sansa said, and climbed off the bench, somehow managing to look graceful and showing off her arse at the same time. Not quite knowing if he was grateful for her company or frustrated no end because he couldn`t get his brain around what had happened last night, he walked outside into all too bright sunshine, heading for the stables.

The stable-hands had already foddered the horses and were busy mucking out the stalls, two large wheel-barrows alternating between driving soiled straw to the muck heap and dumping clean straw into the stalls. Their four horses was placed innermost in the stable as Stranger tended to make all hell break loose if he was stabled in too much turmoil. He whinnied at Sandor when he saw him, but topped his ears at Sansa too. _Bloody unfaithful horse._ Sansa met his eyes, obviously insecure about how he would react, and Sandor felt all his anger slide away, leaving him feeling exposed, wanting to fucking kiss her. Looking down at her, he marvelled at the effect she had on him.

“Since we have a day off, we might as well make it useful,” he said, “so, my pretty squire, you`ll ride today. And since you`ve taken a liking to Stranger, you`ll ride him,” he added wryly, knowing she could start yelling at him again. Sansa looked at him with both excitement and doubt, but then squared her shoulders and quietly went to get Stranger’s saddle and bridle while Sandor brushed the mount down.

Leading Stranger out in the backyard, Sandor wondered what in the seven hells had possessed him to think it was a good idea to tutor anybody in this blasted sunlight reflecting off the snow. But his Little Bird walked beside him looking excited, and he got to help her up, touching her legs. Clearing his throat he started telling her about the day’s exercise.

“Relax, you`re riding him in a yard, it`s much safer than grooming him. Now, Guardian is a rouncey, he`s a really good all-round horse and can run for hours, but he doesn`t have the strength to carry me into battle.” He thought something glimmered in her eyes at that, but she continued looking interestedly down at him.

“Stranger, on the other hand, is a courser, and a bloody good one, too. He`s built to easily transfer weight to his hind-legs, which makes him strong and quick doing the same exercises in combat as in the training yard. He`s highly educated, fucking amazing in exercises above ground like terre à terre, courbet and capriole. The reason for this is his self-carriage, which again has its basis in transferring weight to his hind-legs. So it all comes back to that, for all horses, not just coursers. Look, give him loose reins and ask him to walk on a curved track. And then start working your inner seat bone down in the saddle in pace with his inner hind-leg.”

Sansa looked confused at him. “What`s my inner seat bone?” Sandor laughed, despite his headache.

“It`s your… ah fuck, sit on your hands,” he said.

“What?” Sansa replied, wide-eyed.

He walked up to her and hesitantly put his hand on top of her hand. _She did sleep in the same bed as me by choice…_ Gently leaning his other hand on her thigh, feeling lust flash through him instantly, he slid their combined hands under her arse, and knew he was fucking lost.

“There`s your seat bone, Little Bird,” he rasped a touch breathlessly, as he pressed her hand up against her firm buttock before retreating. She looked silently down on him with her lips slightly parted, then glanced at his hand still on her thigh. He snatched it away, but she took hold of his wrist and met his eyes. Holding his gaze she slowly let her fingertips brush over his calloused palm and up the side of his fingers, making him exhale sharply, arousal throbbing hotly through him. She twined her fingers lightly into his, stroking him gently, before letting go. He looked up at her wonderingly, trying to even his breathing, but she only smiled sweetly at him, the bruise on her face all too obvious in the sunlight.

“Thank you for showing me that, Sandor, shall we proceed?” she asked quietly, looking flushed, still with that smile on her face. _With what? Touching each other?_ He took a deep breath and continued the lesson. Making her feel the difference in Stranger’s gait as he prolonged his steps and put his hind legs in under his body, lifting his back and arching his neck. Enjoying the sight of her following the horse’s movement so beautifully, imagining how she would look straddling his cock instead, with those tempting hips of hers rolling, fucking him, her hands touching him, moaning so prettily into his mouth…

Head throbbing in pace with his cock, he tried desperately to concentrate on what he was doing again. “Right. That`s why you need to keep your hands still. You`re only disturbing him when you tug at his mouth. I need to be able to let the reins go when I fight from the saddle, and he needs to continue his work nonetheless, taking other kinds of commands, like the use of my seat bones, hips, legs and the way I twist my shoulders. Try it! Hold your hands still and twist your shoulders at me, your weight on the inside. Good. See now he`s doing a versade, walking slightly sideways. It has to do with controlling where he puts his legs…”

Walking through the common room side by side with Sansa after stabling Stranger again, Sandor kept glancing sideways at her. He was quite sure she`d flirted with him out there. And she`d said she liked his ugly face. But she`d also told him to go to hell. What the fuck could a man make out of that? _Seven save me._ The dreadful feeling that she was doing it to humiliate him as a revenge for his outburst made him nauseous again. Surely that was something Cersei would fucking do, not Sansa? Why couldn`t she just yell at him instead? Maybe it was some trick women learned the day they flowered…

Sansa smiled up at him, like she`d just remembered something. “Sandor, I didn`t know men noticed when they`re being leered at. You know, like with Jaime and the serving woman?” _Ah, shut up about Jaime, would you?_

“How the fuck should I know?” he grumbled back, starting up the stairs.

Sansa grinned broadly at him. “Don`t you notice?”

“I`m hardly anything to leer at, now am I, girl?” he rasped annoyed, feeling the burnt side of his mouth starting to twitch.

“Yes you are. Randa and Mya were leering at you in the crypt,” she said too kindly, making him feel even more confused, anger starting to seep through. What had some blasted girls from the Vale got to do with anything?

She stopped outside her room and he paused, not bloody knowing what to say. So he met her gaze and waited. She smiled shyly at him before gaining confidence, and then let her gaze roam over his body, admiring him with great care, pausing at his hips and shoulders, lingering on his mouth, sliding down his arms to his hands and finally flicking to his groin, her lips parting. It felt like she`d fucking let her hands glide over him, leaving him breathless.

“Now you`ve noticed,” she whispered, suddenly blushing for all her worth, before she smiled sweetly at him and went into her room. He stood there, confused and aroused as hell, wondering if he dared hope that she was actually flirting, not just paying him back by humiliating him.


	16. How to shave a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

After shutting the door behind her, leaving Sandor staring at her in the hallway, Sansa grinned from ear to ear at Brienne, unable to contain all the soaring feelings bubbling inside her. Brienne looked at her and smiled back.

“Why are you so happy?” she asked as she oiled her saddlebag, readying it for the possibility for wet snow and rain once they descended down to the riverlands.

Sansa looked at her, deciding that they were on equal footing after last night. “I leered at Sandor,” she confided, and grinned widely again. Brienne looked surprised at her before shaking her head and fastening her gaze at what she was doing again. But then she smiled ruefully.

“As long as you don`t leer at Jaime,” she said blushing, suddenly looking girlish.

“We`ve quite different taste in men, haven`t we?” Sansa replied, thinking she would get Brienne pillow-talking sooner or later.

They ordered bathwater, knowing it could be a long time until the chance next presented itself, and sat side by side in their respective tubs quietly enjoying the luxury. Until Brienne glanced sideways at her.

“Just so you know… Jaime _did_ need help yesterday. His stump got a beating being in the other end of his golden hand… you know, he was a bit too happy using it to punch with. The bruise needed cleaning up. It just… well, he held me and stroked my back, nothing more,” she said blushing even more than earlier. Sansa grinned at the muscular woman beside her, thinking everybody needed to be held sometimes, even ferocious female warriors with split lips.

“Sandor passed out in my hair,” she replied, feeling happiness surge in her at the thought. Rolling her eyes inwardly at the absurd reaction to _that_ sentence, she started washing said hair to free it of more dye. “And I`m still a maiden, so no need to worry,” she added, not daring to let the full extent of her feelings for the man show yet. Brienne laughed and looked relieved at the same time, reaching over to help Sansa rinse the soap out of her tresses, colouring the water faintly brown.

Sansa had woken this morning with Sandor’s arm heavy around her waist. She had heard him shut the door behind him in the middle of the night, and didn`t think he would come back to her. But then she`d felt his weight press the mattress down, and he`d lifted her onto his arm again, holding her so close. The amazing feeling of his lips on her head when she embraced him in return, pretending sleep, had sent cascades of shivers roaming through her. He did like her, and he did want her. She just needed to charm him into admitting it.

Sansa dressed in her squires clothes, but let her hair hang loose to dry. Or so she told Brienne. The way Sandor seemed to like putting his hands in her tresses made her think of it as flirting with him. The men had bathed too, and soon came stomping into the women’s room smelling fresh. Sandor seemed to be in a better shape, he`d even reclaimed his usual attitude, grumbling about finally being hungry but that the blasted Lion insisted on getting a shave first. She felt her heart leap in her chest as she studied him, enjoying the sight of just how massive he actually was, even out of his armour, his height and scarring making him so thrillingly intimidating. He paused when he saw her with her hair hanging loose, the colour so much more like her own. She smiled when she walked past him meeting his gaze, seeing in his eyes he knew she`d done it on purpose, making him grin ruefully down at her.

Knowing he had looked at her so hesitantly, with that strange mix of lust and wonderment only hours ago, made the tumbling happiness in her stomach expand. To discover that he wanted her after all had been such a joy. But knowing that, and adding the fact that he hadn`t just suggested taking her maidenhead up against Stranger’s stall when she flirted so obviously with him, was pure bliss… Sandor was a man of action. He`d wanted that woman in the Vale, and felt no restriction against touching her breast. That he showed this insecurity when he at the same time found her arousing, _should_ mean that Sansa was probably not the only one walking around with her heart on her sleeve. Or so she feverishly hoped.

Jaime sat down on a stool, looking relieved to finally get rid of his beard. Brienne had gone to organize the laundry and try to get Sansa some more clothes, while Sandor sharpened a knife, looking dubiously at her as he handed it over hilt first. She let it pass, having no intention of telling him how she had learned to shave Petyr, or how unpleasant those experiences had turned out to be. She set to work, using the knife precisely, rinsing it free of soap and eleven days of golden beard with hints of grey in a bowl of hot water. There was actually something satisfactory in revealing Jaime’s handsome features once more. “Now you look the comely knight again,” she said when finished, smiling at him. Jaime thanked her and left, while Sandor scowled at them both. _Are you jealous?_

She looked at him while she filled clean, warm water in the basin. And pointed at her bed when he was about to take the stool left by Jaime. He met her gaze a moment too long, before snorting softly to himself, and sitting down on the covers, visibly steeling himself. _For what? Being near me on a bed?_ For some reason, that set her heart racing. She walked over carrying the clean knife, soap, cloth and water. Putting it on the bedside, she suddenly felt lightheaded being so close to him.

Trying not to let it show, she gently soaped his cheek, and around his mouth, holding lightly on to his neck for support, wanting to kiss him. Then she let the knife glide along his skin, concentrating to get the angle right, to get a clean shave and no cuts. Sandor sat unmoving under her hands, grey eyes studying her face without giving any of his thoughts away. _Frustrating man._ How could he be so impressively impassive, when she herself felt a horrible mixture of performance anxiety and giddiness at being so close to him? She was standing beside him, thigh pressed against his muscular leg, trying to get a comfortable working position. More like trying to ignore the warmth radiating through the fabric that separated their skin and the lust that simmered in her.

It had been considerably easier with Jaime, who without being a short man in any way, at least made it possible to work with his face a bit lower. He didn`t stir up any feelings either… With Sandor, her shoulders were already starting to ache, and his breath on her neck and arms sent warmth flickering through her veins. All very distracting…

She carefully shaved away the beard bordering the scarred part of his face, concentrating on not cutting the puckered skin. She looked at him, suddenly getting the feeling that she was crossing some kind of boundary. “Do you feel anything through the scarring? Does it hurt?” she asked carefully. He regarded her silently.

“Yes and no. I don`t feel anything, but I _feel_ you touching me. It doesn`t hurt exactly, either.” She glanced at him, looking into grey shields. _Ah, too close for you, my savage dog._ She patted his cheek dry, and soaped up his neck, starting on the last part of making the man presentable.

“Up,” she murmured, using her index finger to press up under his chin, watching in a kind of wonderment when he obediently exposed his throat to her – and the knife in her hands. Somehow, she had half expected him to balk.

She had soon shaved the black beard covering his neck, smiling at finding grey hairs in his beard, too. Thinking about all the times in Kings Landing he had forced her face up by the chin to look at him, his fingers digging into her skin. And, when the setting had been reversed, _he_ last held steel against _her_ throat. Without really thinking it through, she altered the angle of the knife and twisted its point, pricking his skin, holding Sandor at knifepoint like he had held his dagger against her throat so long ago.

He stiffened visibly, but didn`t utter a sound, or move his hands. _That`s curious._ He could disarm her in the blink of an eye, if he wanted to. She met his stony gaze with her own, and stroked a hand up a broad, unyielding shoulder, her thumb caressing his scarred neck.

“Maybe I should ask you to sing?” she whispered.

Emotions started roiling in his eyes like storm clouds before lightning. The clear recognition of what she was recreating, the darkness and bone deep shame that crept in those usually hard grey eyes, startled her a bit.

“You really don`t want to hear me sing, Little Bird, especially not with the headache from hell,” he rasped in a low voice, a small drop of blood trickling down his throat.

“A different kind of song then,” she said and smiled slightly, knowing very well the joke he had sent over her head in Kings Landing and somehow feeling that they were playing a game. She lowered her lips to his neck, without removing the knife. The sharp intake of breath was quite a satisfying reaction, followed by a strangled sound as she slowly kissed her way down to the collar of his tunic, feeling his hot skin prickling into goose bumps under her lips, the silkiness of his hair brushing against her face, inhaling the clean scent of _him_ and the soap still on his neck. One handed, she unlaced the rough material, feeling Sandor’s breathing grow uneven under her hand when she pushed the wool aside.

He touched her lightly with the tips of his fingers on either thigh, sending a tingling rush of warmth through her body. Her breath caught and he responded instantly by stroking ever so gently up her legs, pausing right under her bottom. Feeling her own breath quicken, arousal spreading to her stomach and down between her legs, she leaned towards him and kissed his pulse point, licking him. Sandor groaned softly in response and pressed his face down against her head, breathing hard and fast into her hair, his pulse throbbing under her lips. She continued, planting kisses along his collarbone to where his tunic denied further pursuit, and felt his hands slide up around her waist before tightening his grip. Turning her face up towards him, they breathed raggedly cheek against cheek under a curtain of nearly auburn and black hair, his scarred skin against her soft, his arms around her as she held the knife to his throat.

“What in the seven buggering hells are you playing at, you crazy Little Bird? Are you trying to fucking kill me twice at the same time?” Sandor groaned raggedly into her ear.

“You just started to sing so prettily for me,” she answered breathlessly, soaring inwardly at the experience of being the source of such a reaction from him. Blushing furiously, Sansa couldn`t help but look expectantly into his eyes. She was rewarded with liquid grey lust, pure and smouldering.

She took the knife away from his throat and perched herself gingerly on his thigh, but he dragged her unceremoniously into his lap and pressed her towards his groin, making her pant with arousal. “Fuck, Sansa…” he whispered, and lifted her leg over his lap so she was seated astride him again, bucking his hips up towards her, letting her feel just how hard he was. She moaned softly as lust slammed through her entire body, hearing the knife clattering to the floor as she laid her arms around his neck. He met her gaze, arousal, frustration and pleasure making his ragged breath even more intoxicating.

“If you continue to do this to me, Sansa, I will break. I`ve tried so hard to keep myself in check, but this is too fucking much,” he rasped breathlessly. She felt him twine his hands into her hair before placing them on her hips, moving her slightly against him so that he groaned softly and made her wet between her legs. “I don`t understand why you`re doing this. You always wanted handsome, chivalrous knights in shining armour. Why does it please you to play with me? Do you only wish to humiliate me? If you wanted to get even for the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, slit my throat and be done with it, for fuck’s sake! Because if you do this one more time, I`ll rip your clothes off and fuck you no matter the consequences, believe me.” Fury was seeping into his hoarse voice and he tightened his grip on her hips angrily, moving her in circles over his hardened manhood while pressing her down hard and moving his hips at the same time, using her body to give himself pleasure. They both groaned this time, making him look surprised at her and ease his grip.

“If I wanted handsome knights, I would have shared a bed with Jaime,” she gasped back at him, making Sandor exhale raggedly and bury his face in her neck. “I don`t want to humiliate you. Don`t you see you`re not the only one consumed by need?” She continued, moving her hips slowly of her own free will, grinding herself against his manhood. He moaned softly into her hair, arms tightening around her, but pressed her down gently, bucking his hips in time with her, brushing his mouth oh so sweetly against her neck. “But I would`ve liked an apology for that night… that would have been nice. You frightened me,” she added, sobering up a bit. Sandor went very still underneath her, the arms around her tensing, the silence dragging out. Starting to feel disappointed, Sansa took her hands away from his neck and moved to get down from his lap. But he refused to let her go, and suddenly the dam broke.

“Seven hells, Sansa. I`m so horribly fucking sorry for that night,” he whispered miserably into her hair. “I`ve no excuse for putting you in that position, it just buggered the hell out of me that I did. If it is any consolation, I spent my supposed deathbed bloody raving about it, and six month digging graves just for that one, painful sin, but could never forgive myself. ” She could feel how his breathing had suddenly turned shallow, his arms iron as they pressed her towards him.

“Thank you, Sandor that was… thank you,” she whispered back, overwhelmed by the passion in his voice. “You were awfully drunk… and… so _frightened…_ ” She turned her head towards him, but he stiffened, so she hastened to continue, “I know you`re no craven, I`ve never seen you afraid to fight anyone, do anything… and I know fully well your skills as a fighter are hard to match.” She kissed his temple softly, careful of the bruise there. “I can`t be sorry for being a frightened child at the time. But I _am_ sorry for not holding you when you needed it most.” She looked into his face and saw yet again a jumble of emotions in his eyes. Incredulity, frustration, lust, suspicion and shame, shadowed by a look of utter vulnerability again, and… _love?_

They heard heavy footsteps in the hallway and Brienne’s voice a moment before she and Jaime entered. Sansa flew out of Sandor’s lap, turning rapidly towards the washbasin. Trying to control her breathing and straightening her jacket. She heard Sandor move slightly behind her, tugging his coat over the bulge still in his breeches. When she turned back, she saw Jaime flick a glance between her and Sandor, raising his brows amusedly at Sandor’s unlaced tunic, but he didn`t say anything. _Thank the Gods._ Sandor scowled back at him and tugged his laces tight, silently threatening to do awful things if it didn`t continue that way. Brienne on the other hand was mercifully deep in a story about an accident she`d had as a child riding her father’s destrier.

Sansa went back to Sandor having rinsed new, warm water through the cloth. She met his eyes and felt they had an entire conversation over Jaime and Brienne’s heads, just with that one glance. He sighed deeply when she touched him again, and as tenderly as she could, still glowing with need for him, she wiped the rest of the soap and the tiny drops of blood from his neck, making it a caress.


	17. Last night with the fucking traveling show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Sandor sat feeling dazed at a table, Jaime sitting opposite him looking smug. The common room sported enough bruises for a melee; everyone gave him a wide berth or greeted him respectfully before burying their faces in their wine. Which suited him nicely. The innkeeper had used his brains and provided entertainment, lest his brutish guests start entertaining themselves again. So music, laughter and crude singing filled the common room, making enough noise to be heard at The Wall. Serving wenches had already started to slap away unwanted attention, and drink flowed freely.

They were waiting on the women, who were still upstairs, trying to make the best out of the clothes Brienne had managed to purchase for their squire. His squire. His Little Bird. _Sansa._ Who`d fucking gasped and groaned and rolled her hips in his lap and kissed his neck. Just thinking about it made his body respond. _Fucking hells this is going to be agony._

Jaime knew he was embarrassingly fucked up over her, he was sure. The man had instincts, and tumbling his twin sister for so many years without real disclosure must have required some skill at subtle understandings. But for some reason he`d held his mouth firmly shut earlier today, and for that Sandor was grateful. Unfortunately he had a feeling that was about to end.

Jaime’s smug grin widened until he couldn`t contain it anymore. Glancing around the room at the other battered looking men waiting for supper, drinking and singing loudly already, he leaned forwards and spoke in a low voice.

“Clegane, you fucking bastard, why in the Maiden’s teats were you half-undressed after getting a shave?” Sandor groaned inwardly. Blasted Lion.

“Go fuck yourself, would you?” he grumbled in reply, unsheathing his dagger and starting to clean his nails.

“Ah yes, nobody else around here seems to want to fuck me, so I better find my pleasures on my own,” the annoying man grinned, unabashed. “You, on the other hand, looked like you`d been fucked through all seven heavens and then denied release.” Despite himself Sandor felt his treacherous lips twist into a revealing grin.

“Ha! I knew it!” Jaime responded triumphantly, waving Brienne and Sansa over as they came laughing down the stairs.

Sansa sat down beside him, bruised but clean and smiling, telling him about how she`d started to make the arm-lock work with Brienne, gesticulating enthusiastically, carrying on while they ate their food. He glanced longingly at the wine, making her stop in the middle of her tale, looking compassionately at him.

“Do you still feel sick?” she asked, touching his back lightly.

“My head is ready to fucking fall off. Am I _allowed_ wine now, my lady?” he grumbled back at her. She met his gaze, something unreadable and soft in her eyes. _She cares for me!_ Without saying anything she reached for the jug and poured him a cup, setting it in front of him. She chuckled darkly at his relieved expression, but continued her tale, grinning broadly once again. He found himself drowning in her twinkling Tully-blue eyes, and drank deeply of his wine, trying to get his focus away from her face.

“Sandor,” Sansa said, speaking his name softly, like a caress, undermining him from within, sending a whirlwind of emotions churning in his stomach. She looked across the table, making sure Jaime and Brienne were occupied eating and laughing at something, and then continued in a low voice. “Please, don’t drink yourself into a stupor. I`m so sorry if the horrible things I told you pushed you into the wine yesterday…” He stared down at her, cup still at his lips. Setting it down, he gently touched her thigh under the table, suddenly feeling hesitant.

“Now, that’s one thing I would never admit is true, isn`t it girl?” he rasped, trying desperately to find safe ground again. He lowered his voice another notch. “Really Sansa, I am trying _not_ to drink myself into a stupor tonight. It`s just, you`re distracting,” he said ruefully. Sansa laughed, pleased, and gently brushed his fingers in return, making small sparks of pleasure shiver their way through his body. “Well just so you know, I didn`t mean a word, I just wanted you to hurt, because you hurt me,” she said looking ashamed.

Jaime threw one glance at them and catching the setting immediately, promptly starting a too obvious conversation about various methods of unhorsing a man in combat with Brienne. Sandor was grateful; it was nice to be allowed to desire Sansa at least. Then they could talk and she smiled so prettily at him. Trying hard not to do anything to fuck it up, Sandor leaned his elbows on the table, looking carefully at her. “You`re not stupid, Little Bird,” he rasped, feeling a total idiot. She laughed, exasperated.

“Well you did apologize most profoundly earlier today, so I shouldn`t expect too much of you so soon, I suppose,” she smiled wryly. “You`re not quite housebroken, do you know that? What about me being your personal hell?” There was a soreness to her voice that belied her attitude. Finally finding his own footing again, Sandor grinned at her.

“Ah, but that was just the pure and simple truth. Seven save me! If you have any plans to torment me further, I have already told you it will not end honourably.” She smiled back at him, looking so utterly beautiful, and thanked the servant who brought a jug ale.

“I thought you didn`t want me. I was upset for that in the first place,” she said, blushing furiously, and poured herself a cup of the blasted washwater, taking a sip.

“How could you possibly have drawn that conclusion?” he rasped back, surprised. She reddened even more.

“I`ll tell you another time,” she said, and he felt her hand stroke the small of his back, fingers sliding under his swordbelt, following it forwards over his hip to his dagger, unleashing an avalanche of heat tumbling through his body and down to his groin. He met her gaze and she grinned at what she saw in his eyes as she closed her hand around the leather and tugged playfully.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble I had with getting this off you yesterday?” she said still smiling. Thinking of her hands unbuckling his belt didn`t help calm him down in any way.

“Little Bird, it`s a belt not a leash, tugging it won`t get you anywhere. I`ll be all too happy to teach you how to remove it without trouble, and you can sing for me in return,” he said grinning at her, and gently stroked her thigh under the table as she didn`t seem to mind and touching her was addictive. Sansa looked like she liked his touch, so he grew bolder and let his hand slide to where she held her legs demurely together, letting his fingertips caress the union of her perfect thighs. She responded by spreading her legs half an inch for him, looking him straight in the eye, making his whole being want to kiss her and undress her and fuck her slowly for a long, long time. _Ah, fucking, buggering, blasted hells, do you know what you`re doing to me? In a common room!_

Brienne’s voice cut through their gaze. “What do you think, Clegane? What is the best way to dismount a man in a narrow fighting area?” Jaime looked flatly at her.

“Gods Brienne, your timing…”

Sandor shrugged out of his daze, clearing his throat and trying not to look like a scarred knight who was a moment away from kissing his squire in the common room. He actually managed to look gratefully at Brienne before getting a hold of himself.

“What, like fighting in a narrow street? Right, if you`re quick and strong, and want him alive… Get the fucking bastard in a hammerlock with your left hand, then strike his chin with your right, and use that leverage to wrench him off his horse. If you manage to hold on to his wrist, the fall will usually dislocate his shoulder. If the sod`s not worth a ransom, you just ram your dagger through his throat, instead of using the back of your hand. I can show it to you, if you like.” Sansa looked at him thoughtfully.

“You`re quite brutal, are you not?” she said, making his insides drop. He turned around and steeled himself, meeting her gaze, eyes hard. Thinking she would remember who she was flirting with and back the hell out of it.

“Yes, I am, Little Bird. You should know that by now.”

“I feel safe with you,” she said softly, seemingly reading his mind’s worries. “Believe me, I`ve learned how the real world works.”

“The scary thing is,” Jaime said, bemused, “that I actually find myself in deep admiration of a _Clegane’s_ way with women. You`ve never had a wife, but have fucked every whore and wench who`s stumbled into your lap, and your brother had two… no, three wives? Who all seemed to drop dead instantly?” Sandor met his gaze with a stony one of his own.

“Fuck you, Lannister! Go find a buggering hot poker to play with or even better; your blasted sister, you bastard-spawning son of a bitch!” he growled angrily at the cheeky bastard across the table.

“Right, crossed the line there. My fault, got what I deserved,” Jaime replied, smiling, just as cocksure as before, but the steel in his green eyes told Sandor he`d hit the target. “But really, I mean it. You two fight and refuse to talk to each other for a whole day, but you somehow manage to get her to patch you up after you decide to drunkenly fight any man available… before you spend the night in her bed and make the lady feel safe by telling her you`re a brute right to her face.” He laughed, emerald eyes twinkling once more. “Please, teach me! I`m trying to charm Brienne into kissing me, and will possibly receive a beating for lack of the right words.” He turned to the large wench. “Brienne, what if I offered to bugger you very, _very_ sweetly, does that help?” Brienne rolled her eyes at him, but smiled at the same time.

Sandor laughed at the summary and glanced sideways at Sansa. _You do care for me._ She tilted her head and looked up at him, a blush blossoming on her cheeks. Trying to drink slowly he went through the bloody mess in his head. If he ended up in bed with her for real, he would make her Tyrion’s. If he didn`t fuck her, and left her maidenhead intact, she`d be married off to some blasted bag of shit with a title. He`d lose either way, so the decision rested on Sansa, and she cared about him and wanted to be near him at least. Seven buggering hells, he felt like his chest would burst with the churning chaos, so much bliss combined with the heartache of knowing she would fly away from him sooner or later no matter what he did.

Sansa seemed to relax at how slowly his cup emptied, and moved her leg so her thigh pressed against his, holding him at a simmer. Jaime was actually flirting with Brienne, to Sandor’s amazement. Maybe he just did it to be nice to her, but Jaime actually really seemed to like her. What could a pretty-boy like Jaime want with that ugly aurochs of a woman? And what could a beautiful highborn bird want with a scarred, lowborn dog nearly twice her age? She sat smiling wryly at the vulgar singing around her, tapping her feet, before turning to him.

“You know, I`ve never been in a common room with drunken song and rough men trying to break each other’s arms arm-wrestling,” she smiled prettily at him, looking a lady despite her squire’s appearance.

“What? Do you want me to arm-wrestle someone for you? I`ll do it if you want,” Sandor replied rolling his shoulders, “but I`d rather sit here with you,” he rasped under his breath, rubbing his neck and feeling immensely foolish. But his Little Bird smiled gratefully at him.

He couldn`t help himself and laid his hand behind her arse, concealing it as leaning forwards for more wine, and slowly started drawing circles with his thumb. She went still, and didn`t look at him, but adjusted her position against the wall, pressing her pretty behind into his hand, shoving her folded cloak up to hide that he was fondling her. He heard how his breath caught, and tried to control his breathing better, starting to gently move his hand. Waves of lust rolled through him making his cock strain his laces, while he feverishly tried to not let it show on his face.

Her arse felt so tight and lush at the same time. She glanced at him lips parted, and he felt her hand stroking his thigh under the table. She looked at the singing men as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, and let her fingers stroke tentatively over his hardened cock. It was all he could do not to groan out loud. He tried to hide his pleasure by diving into his wine. Turning to her, meeting her blue eyes filled with pure desire for him, was even more arousing and made him feel in desperate need of finding his release. _Too good._

“This might not be wise, Little Bird,” he said, hearing the strain in his voice before gently removing her hand. “I need to be able to ride tomorrow.” Her eyes glittered, and she suddenly looked mischievous, despite the blush in her cheeks.

“I thought you were teaching _me_ to ride properly.” Sandor choked on his wine.

“Fucking hell, girl!” That got the Lion’s attention. “Jaime, it took us exactly eleven days to ruin our highborn charge. Now she`s bloody drinking ale and throwing coarse jokes at me! We`ll be a head shorter each when we deliver a leering squire instead of the Lady she`s supposed to be.” Jaime laughed.

“Don`t take it personally Clegane, it`s just your charming nature rubbing off on her.” At that Sansa burst out laughing, trying to strangle her mirth by putting her cup to her mouth. But her eyes met his, glittering again. _Rubbing off, Gods…_ Looking wryly at her he raised his glass and she toasted him in return.

Knowing they would rise early the next day, they went up to their rooms not long after the ladies’ return. Walking behind Sansa up the darkened stairs, watching how nice her arse looked swaying with every step, Sandor felt aroused like hell and content at the same time. Jaime had grabbed Brienne’s sleeve and dragged her along to check the horses, letting the two of them have a moment alone. Sandor was beginning to think he could like the smug fucker after all.

His Little Bird stopped before her door and turned towards him, suddenly looking anxious. He reached out and stroked her cheek, looking down into her beautiful eyes, wanting her to relax. She smiled at him and took a deep breath.

“You deserve the harsh truth, like you`ve always given to me,” she said, somehow sounding more well-bred with every word. _Oh no._ “I`m scared. Because I want to sleep in your arms again, and I want more than that, too,” she blushed prettily, “and I know I`ve worked you up to a point where refusing you anything would be… rude,” her voice sank to a whisper, “but I`m scared anyway, because I`ve never done this before, and I don`t know why, because it`s ridiculous, but now that it`s real instead of a game I`m scared, and I thought you ought to know…” He thought his heart would burst for this beautiful, alluring young woman, who after all was still pretty innocent. Feeling every protective fibre in him scream to take care of her.

“Sansa, you don`t need to be scared, I would never do anything to you that you don`t want me to. In bed at least; I`m bound to rile the shit out of you outside it sooner or later.” She smiled at him, but her shoulders were tense. “If you want to sleep in my arms I would be fucking joyous,” he grumbled feeling exposed, “we don`t have to do more than that if you don`t want to.”

She met his eyes, looking vulnerable and thoughtful at the same time. And then stepped up against him, resting her head on his chest. He embraced her slowly, not wanting to scare her away any more, holding her tightly and stroking her back. She exhaled deeply into his coat and he felt her arms going around his waist, pulling him towards her. They stood like that for a long time, quietly savouring each other’s scent and warmth, exchanging something precious.

At long last she raised her head, looking up at him with a tenderness that sent his whole being into a frenzy again. She loosened her arms around his waist and stroked him up his stomach and chest, caressing his shoulders before laying her arms around his neck, pulling him gently down towards her. His insides surged with bliss and he lowered his head, her cheek stroking against his good one as she turned his head before kissing his scarred temple, making him gasp. She planted soft kisses he couldn`t feel, but _felt,_ down the twisted scar tissue of his cheek until she tenderly kissed the burnt side of his mouth, silently asking him to kiss her back - just the way he was.

He turned his head and brushed his scarred mouth against her lush lips, waiting, hoping it really was what she wanted, nearly shaking in anticipation. Sansa closed in and kissed him softly, hands stroking the nape of his neck, filling the kiss with longing and something pure and clean Sandor had never experienced before. He started moving his lips slowly and she followed his pace, creating waves of pleasure simmering through him as she moved her hands into his hair and demanded more, bringing in her passion and lust, pressing herself towards him as her lips moved so alluringly over his.

He opened his mouth against hers and felt her tongue slide over his upper lip, scarred part and all, making him moan like a fucking maiden into her mouth. But she whimpered in pleasure when he touched her tongue with his own and tightened her grip in his hair, moaning as the kiss turned demanding and deep, both of them craving more, pressing their bodies towards each other as their shared arousal resonated between them, surging higher, letting years of his frustrated longing finally find some expression.

Knowing they couldn`t be seen like this, he reluctantly broke the kiss, panting, making Sansa squirm against him, trying to drag his head down for more. He obliged, kissing her once more before rasping raggedly into her ear.

“Sansa, my beautiful Little Bird, if you want me in your bed tonight you need to tell me now. I can`t embrace my squire in the hallway much longer and get away with it.” She laughed shakily.

“I think we`ll need to make Brienne very upset or very happy, I`m not quite sure which, but she`ll have to share a room with Jaime tonight,” she whispered back and opened the door behind her dragging him inside, closing the door and bolting it.

Sandor felt like his whole world had turned upside down, depriving him of speech and mixing so much desire into his blissful inner chaos that his brain didn`t work anymore. So he just stood there, watching her lighting the candles, wondering how to proceed. This was not like straddling a whore from behind, now, was it? She smiled shyly at him and took his hand, stroking his palm gently.

“Maybe this would be a good time to teach me how to get your swordbelt off?” she suggested blushingly. He cleared his throat.

“Might be a good idea. I can demonstrate and then you can have a try next time,” he answered hoarsely with a wry smile, unbuckling it and putting his weapons on the floor beside the bed. She followed him, looking shy and expectant at the same time, reaching for the knots holding his coat together, unravelling them one by one, making his need build in pace with his state of undress. He shrugged out of the garment and threw it on the floor before seating himself on her bed, dragging her down into his lap and freeing her hair from the blasted wool that covered it before holding her close.

“What do you want?” he whispered into her hair, feeling aroused beyond belief.

“To see you without your tunic,” she blurted before laughing self-consciously into his neck. “I`m sorry, I don`t know why I said that… or I do, but…” Sandor felt himself grinning, loving that she still said things without thinking. He freed himself from her arms, put her on the bed and dragged off his tunic and undershirt, standing there in breeches and boots in the dim candlelight, hoping she would like what she saw. She drank him in with her eyes and let out a little groan.

“Gods, you`re magnificent,” she murmured blushing even more. He sat down beside her grinning widely, unable to contain the amazing feeling of being desired. Her hands stroked tentatively over his skin, lightly touching his bruises, fingers tracing old and new scars, pausing at his left arm. “How did you get burned again?” she whispered, stroking the slick skin of the new scarring. _Oh, fuck._

“Long story, I`ll tell it to you another time.” She smiled and continued to explore his upper body, running her fingers over the hair on his chest, following its course in a stripe down over his stomach, stroking along the lining of his breeches, rapidly making him breathe as if he`d been fighting for hours. He lay down on his back and she slid down beside him, so he dragged her close and kissed her tempting mouth again, groaning as she responded so passionately, her tongue driving him to another level of need. He bucked his hips towards her, desperate for some sort of stimulus, and she answered by rolling her hips up to meet him, making all reserve go.

He groaned breathlessly and started kissing her neck, returning the favour she`d done him earlier that day, marvelling at how much pleasure one could get from trying to please another person. Sansa moaned softly and put her arms around him as he leaned on his elbow to get on top of her, stroking his back tightly, tracing his muscles, squirming underneath him in lust and pleasure as his teeth grazed the bend of her neck carefully, his hand stroking her thigh up to her arse. He tugged loose the fastenings of her jacket, unwrapping the most precious gift he`d ever received, raising her up until she sat pressed hard against him, kissing his collarbone with her arms tight around his neck. Too tight. He paused, feeling the tension in her, and held his Little Bird quietly, both of them breathing raggedly, until she leaned away from him looking deep into his very being.

“Could we please just play tonight?” she whispered, looking small. “Not, you know, consummate anything?” Sandor started laughing before he could stop himself.

“The thought that I`m going to consummate that horrible little bugger’s marriage with you at all is just… bloody unbelievable,” he rasped shakily. “I want to fuck you more than anything, but just touching you sends me into all seven heavens, so don`t worry, Little Bird, you decide,” he said stroking her hair.

Something shifted in her and she smiled brilliantly at him. Feeling her wonderful body relax and her shoulders sink, she suddenly blossomed before him. Looking hungrily at him like she had when holding that knife to his throat, eyes roaming over his stomach and chest and admiring his shoulders and arms, she took off her jacket and loosened her tunic making him pant with desire. He dragged off his boots and stockings, but let his breeches stay, not wanting to put too much pressure on her, liking the bold way she let her hands slide around him from behind, pressing her teats and cheek into his back holding him close.

He turned around, embracing her, kissing her until she moaned into his mouth while stroking tightly up his arms and digging her fingers into his shoulders. He let his hands slide up under her tunic from her waist to her breasts and waited until she started to squirm impatiently before he smiled into their kiss and cupped her young, firm teats, the sensation sending hard stabs of lust through him. She gasped and pressed herself into is hands, before wrapping her arms around his neck and dragging him down on top of her on the bed.

He quickly freed her of her tunic and undershirt looking at her beautiful, supple body in reverence, groaning at the sight of her fucking perfect teats, her nipples small and hard. She kissed him impatiently arching her back, groaning when he touched her breasts again, the feeling of her bare skin in his hands making him start to roll his hips up against her thigh, gasping at the pleasure the friction against his rock hard cock gave him. She spread her legs and wrapped them around his waist, her hands buried in his hair, making the most arousing noises as he let his thumbs slide lightly over her nipples.

Moving up against her made Sandor feel dangerously close to release, knowing she was capable of unmanning him completely, he shifted their position still kissing her. Sansa followed him, but to his amazement and intense pleasure also let her hand stroke over him through his breeches, her fingers following the outline of his cock, her palm rubbing him. He heard himself moan, dazed by the pleasure, and kissed her from her ear and down towards her teat, taking her nipple gently in his mouth, letting his tongue encircle it, sucking gently. She gasped and arched her back, tightening her grip on his cock through his breeches making both of them groan loudly. He kissed her mouth hungrily and lifted her leg over his hip, stroking her lightly between her legs from behind, making her buck her hips and press herself towards his fingers. It was too much, a whole day of teasing and expectations was rapidly catching up with him.

“Sansa… please, you need to stop touching me or else I`ll peak, you`re too delicious, too beautiful…” he whispered raggedly into her mouth and felt her grin against is scarred lips. Her hand left his cock, making him ache for her touch at once, but then she started unlacing him instead. He gasped for breath, laying utterly still, not sure he`d be able to hold back. She left it to him to get his breeches off, but swiftly shed her own as well, pressing close to him again completely naked, dragging the covers on top of them. _Seven bleeding, fucking hells!_ Desperately trying to hold back his release, Sandor tried to think of something else as her silken skin slid against his own, nipples hard and wanting, her hands roaming his body, her legs sliding up against him, stroking his painfully hard cock. He gasped and bucked his hips grinding his cock against her silken thigh, coming perilously close to the edge of his control. She moaned and gasped and wriggled in his arms, drawing his thigh up between her legs and letting him feel how wet her sweet cunt was. He wanted to touch her so badly, but knew that that would end it for him.

“Sandor,” Sansa moaned into his neck, biting him gently, “please, could you do what you did to me in the Vale, pretend… pretend-fuck me?” she whispered breathlessly, nearly sending him into bliss by the way she pronounced fuck. “I need release, too.” _Oh, seven save me!_

He turned them, laying her beneath him, discovering that he was bloody shaking. She smiled at him and stroked his cheek, as he had done to try to make her relax. She spread her legs for him and pulled him towards her, and he heard himself groan helplessly at the feeling of her magnificent pink, wet cunt against his cock, watching in wonderment as she laid her head back gasping with equal pleasure. He pressed her down into the mattress and, leaning on his elbow, placed one hand in her silken hair, twining it around his fingers, his other hand stroking her dangerously delicious breast, all too aware that he walked a thin line. She tilted her hips so her nub rubbed against his cock, and he started moving his hips as though he was fucking her, wondering dazedly how a real fuck with her would feel when this had him shaking with pleasure. Sansa moaned instantly, grinding herself towards him, pressing her teat into his hand.

The wetness from her made his cock slide easily from her cunt and up her stomach, laying hot against his own, creating such intense pleasure in him that he groaned loud and clear, the pressure in his cock building rapidly into uncontrollable, nearly painful bliss. He met her eyes, seeing equally intense pleasure on her face, and felt her hands on his arse pressing him towards her as she moaned his name, silently begging for more. He couldn`t hold back anymore for the life of him, so he took her nipple between his fingers, squeezing gently, and adjusted his position against her cun`t feeling himself starting to go. She arched her back, opening her pretty mouth, and moaned soundlessly, rolling her hips and pressing him harder towards her. He tumbled off the edge in an all consuming wave of ecstasy, hand tightening in her hair, releasing so powerfully that he heard himself try to say her name, but couldn`t manage it, his body and mind pulsing with wave after wave of pure pleasure, his seed spilling into her flat stomach, making them slide against each other. He tried to continue moving and was rewarded with a long, shaky moan from Sansa who arched her back once more, before lying still beneath him panting just as hard as he was.

He lay heavily on top of her, but couldn`t move. Slowly, slowly his mind seemed to resurface from the hazy fog of the aftermath, contentment seeping into every part of his body. He rolled onto his back and dragged Sansa on top of him, she murmured her thanks but lay limply on his chest, snuggling her face into the crook of his neck, breathing fast and beautifully. Waiting until his heart didn`t try to beat itself out of his chest and his breath actually reached his lungs again, he stroked the beautiful curve of her back, sliding her tousled mane of hair to the side, letting his fingers glide through it. Her arse lay exposed, looking even better without breeches than in them, and her long slim legs were twined with his own. He glanced down on her, and she kissed his skin and tightened her arms around him.

“Sansa,” he murmured, “we need to clean up before the mess dries.” She chuckled into his neck.

“And here I lay, thinking this so romantic with you stroking me and all.” She raised herself, showing her agonizingly pretty body to him, his seed glistening wetly on her tight, young stomach. Sandor felt a stab of resonating pleasure at the sight, and reached out without thinking, touching her skin were it was covered in his fluid. She grinned at him, puzzled, and he snatched his hand back returning her grin ruefully before he went in search of water and cloth.

When they were both cleaned up, he lay down beside her and wrapped his arms around her. “How was it, being pretend-fucked by me, Little Bird?” he rasped into her hair. She laughed and slapped him gently on his hip.

“You`re not supposed to ask such things!” she grinned into his neck.

“I`m not supposed to pretend-fuck you, either,” he grumbled bemusedly back, making her laugh.

“I used to dream of you in the Vale,” she murmured, making him turn his head surprised. “I`m so glad you came for me, and this was just… amazing.” She turned her beautiful face up at him, smiling brilliantly at him. “Did you like it?”

“You`re the best fuck I`d ever had, and I haven`t even fucked you,” he replied, and lifted her on top of him again, feeling her broad grin against his neck. He kissed her hair and dragged the covers over them before tightening his grip around his most precious Little Bird.

 

They must have slept, because Sandor woke up to Jaime’s voice calling urgently through the bolted door. Irritably wrapping a blanket around his waist after tucking Sansa gently into the covers, he strode to the door and opened it. Jaime didn`t even blink at his state of undress, instead hissing between clenched teeth.

“Clegane, the sod you beat half way into an early grave has woken up. Turns out he`s Petyr’s man. They know who she is!”


	18. Bloody hells and Little Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Sansa woke up to Sandor’s low voice at the door, Jaime answering something under his breath. She dragged the covers up against her face, breathing in the intoxicating smell of the man standing in the doorway, feeling happiness surge in her when she thought of how amazing it had been, sharing such pleasure and intimacy with him and finally even kissing him for real! She hadn`t known precisely what to expect, but relying on Randa’s enthusiasm for tumbling men and her own solid trust in Sandor, she`d hoped she would not regret it. And by the Maiden, she had not. She felt a stab of lust thinking of how this feared, dangerous man, ferocious in combat and grumpily impassive in all else had kissed her feverishly and moaned at her touch, the pleasure on his face erasing the lines of a hard, angry life.

He`d not bothered to dress. Sansa would`ve thought that indiscreet of him if she hadn`t been distracted by the way he`d just wrapped a blanket around himself, hanging low on his hips displaying perfectly how narrow they were under his broad, muscular back and wide shoulders. But he seemed tense, the muscles in his arm bunched as he held onto the door tightly. All of her instincts were suddenly in full alert. Sitting up in bed, dragging the covers around herself, she anxiously watched Sandor close the door behind him and walk towards her with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Little Bird, never stop me from beating someone to death again, would you?” he rasped under his breath. “Get your clothes on, we need to go.” Sansa didn`t waste time on gaping, just jumped out of bed and dressed in a hurry.

“What`s happening? Why...? The man who hit me? Why do we have to go because of him?” Sandor was already in his breeches sitting on the bed lacing his boots, and even with her heart in her throat Sansa couldn`t help but notice how nice and flat his stomach was, his skin making tight little wrinkles over hard muscles when he sat leaning forwards like that. He looked at her, something in his eyes telling her he couldn`t quite let their night together go so easily either. But he was all quiet efficiency, shrugging into his garments and starting to stuff Brienne and Sansa’s belongings into their saddlebags while he talked in a low growl.

“Jaime and Brienne checked the horses, and ended up in the hayloft, lucky as shit for us, and overheard one of the stablehands saying something about our horses being really good stock, but that the courser was a nightmare and if the innkeeper meant for the stallion to stay he wouldn`t be handling him. Jaime’s hackles rose, so they tied up the bastards, tossed them into a shed and went to sniff around. Turns out the lowlife who hit you knows a certain mockingbird and that there`s more guests in this inn now than there were yesterday.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry with fear, but her mind started working furiously as she hurriedly braided her hair and stuffed the braid into the cap once more. Sandor opened the window and dropped the saddlebags silently to the ground below. He added the blankets from the beds before beckoning to her. She walked over, cloaked and dressed and tugging her gloves on, wondering why he was wasting time when they needed to get going. He placed large hands on her neck, thumbs stroking her cheeks and lowered his head to kiss her almost hesitantly, as if she might not want him to.

“Keep your pretty mouth shut,” he whispered against her lips. _What? It`s open because you`re kissing me so nicely…_ Still a bit stunned by his sudden show of affection, she was lifted unceremoniously out of the window and dropped a short fall down into Jaime’s arms.

“I thought birds could fly?” the Lion whispered at her cheekily, but with a reassuring grin as he put her to the ground. At least she`d managed to keep quiet, which was pure luck with the warning she`d received. “You`ll need to help me buckle on my armour,” he continued, switching into the practical soldier even in a whisper, picked up their things and hastening quietly in the direction of the men’s belongings, dropped some windows down the backyard.

“Where`s Sandor?” Sansa heard the panic in her whisper as she strapped on his pauldrons, working with his gorget under one arm, trying to see the holes in the straps in the darkness and ending up feeling her way to them with her fingertips.

“He`s taking care of some unfinished business, Brienne`s readying the horses,” Jaime whispered back, buckling on the vambrace he could manage by himself and moving on to his poleyns.

“But he`s not wearing armour!”

“Really, Sansa, you are worrying about a seething Sandor Clegane with sword and dagger, let loose inside an inn, deeply personally offended by someone wanting to hurt his charge… Anyway, sneaking around in armour tends to be more difficult than without it,” Jaime whispered, looking up from fastening his greaves. “All that jingling.”

“He`s as large as a horse, how can he sneak at all?” Sansa whispered back, starting to get angry from fright and worry no matter what Jaime said. In answer the insufferable man broke down in a highly inappropriate, silent laughter.

“Oh, by the Gods, Sansa, I swear you`ll get us all killed with the way you say things one day. Large as a horse, someone hang me! As a rule, don`t compare men with horses, _my lady._ But I _can_ guarantee you Clegane is extremely good at suddenly just being where you least expect him to be.” She swatted the sniggering Lion silently on his head, but couldn`t disagree. After King’s Landing, she knew how true his words were and tried to take comfort from them.

They had Jaime ready in no time. Waiting on Sandor with her heart in her throat and the nasty, metallic taste of fear in her mouth took forever. Standing there in the dark backyard, watching large snowflakes drift silently down, muffling the sound of the men coming to get her, Sansa felt terror coil through her at the thought of all that could go wrong. How had she been recognized? And was Petyr still at large in the Vale? Uncle Blackfish would surely have moved in eleven days? But these men could have been sent after her by Petyr before he was pulled down, they being none the wiser. This was a remote, desolate place after all. Being used to having all the information from Littlefinger’s network of eyes and ears ready at her disposal, Sansa felt extremely frustrated not knowing anything about what was happening in the world. They needed to get out of this with their skin intact and start filtering out the gold from the smallfolk’s gossip.

Sansa’s breath caught as she heard quiet footfalls creaking on the snow, Jaime baring an inch of steel as he leaned against the wall, putting her behind him, listening as the approaching person neared the entrance to the backyard. He moved impressively fast, but so did his opponent, Sansa felt a hard stab of fear, heard herself gasp and started to cover it before both moving shadows stopped abruptly, steel at each other’s throats. Sandor grinned darkly into Jaime’s face, before he lowered his sword, throwing a coarse sack down beside their saddlebags. He had blood on his hands, and drops of blood spattering his face and coat, _again,_ looking grim as the Stranger himself. Jaime started buckling him up immediately, and Sansa found her wits and hastened to help while Sandor whispered hoarsely.

“Fucking bugger`s dead, told me easily enough what we needed to know. There`s a pathetic excuse for a hedge knight waiting with ten men in the kitchens, and possibly more on their way up from Lord Harroway’s Town. Bastards thought to take us on as soon as Brienne and Jaime went to sleep, so we`re running out of time here. There`s ravens sent over half of Westeros telling of the abduction of Littlefinger’s beloved baseborn daughter, offering a ransom. The bloody idiot and his friends didn`t want to share the prize and thought to get their hands on you while I was drunk,” he paused, looking pained, “but the stupid gits hadn`t taken into account that the room was full of merchant guards and sellswords. Fucking hells, what do you expect if you start a fight in a common room filled with men like that? Of course they`ll all join in, for fuck’s sake!” He seemed to shake his head at the imbecile’s obvious lack of brain. “Anyway, the sod was out cold, but his companions ran to meet up with the men coming down the mountains and are now part of the kitchen squad, fucking scullions the lot of them. Didn`t even notice me getting supplies from the storeroom beside them,” Sandor nodded at the sack on the ground, making Sansa let out a breath she didn`t know she`d been holding, realizing she thought it might have contained something far worse. “Only trouble is, there`s a lot of them.”

“But… why would he tell you all that and not shout for help?” Sansa asked in a whisper before the harsh reality sank in. Sandor met her nauseated glance with a hard, flat one of his own.

“I gagged him properly and tied him up before I started breaking bones, and then I only asked him questions he needed to nod or shake his head to. The bugger`s dead now anyway, so don`t ask if you don`t want to know the answer, Little Bird,” he growled hoarsely under his breath, “but nobody hurts you, or I _will_ kill them.” Sansa knew that. She did. And it made her feel grateful. What did that make her?

Standing in the deep shadows of the back of the inn whispering, suddenly felt safe as a mother’s embrace when it dawned on Sansa that they would have to cross the backyard to the stables, and then get the horses out and past the entrance of the inn with the kitchen windows beside it, before they reached the road. For the first time in her life Sansa wanted to swear loudly.

Both Jaime and Sandor moved with a fluid, silent grace, telling of years of practice at falling on their enemies unawares, carrying their saddlebags and equipment effortlessly. Sansa tried to melt into the shadows, too, but it felt like her every movement created enough noise to wake every single person sleeping behind the walls, even her heart beat all too loudly, her breath rasping in her throat.

The doors to the stable creaked like a crone wailing at the top of her lungs and Sansa dived inside seeking the comfort of shelter and the familiar smell of warm horses. Brienne stood fully armoured beside their mounts with a look of relief on her face as she saw them. She hurried over to grab their saddlebags and got to work fastening them to the saddles, rolling blankets into rolls, stuffing bags of oats under the lids and fastening sacks of hay on top.

“I couldn`t get Stranger to cooperate, Clegane, I`m sorry,” she muttered as she worked. Sandor was already lifting his saddle over the handsome stallion’s back, sliding a hand where his girth would lay, checking for anything that could chafe before tightening it and fastened his saddlebags. He reached for the bridle when the stable door crashed open, letting in a gust of cold air and snowflakes.

Everything happened too quickly to comprehend. Jaime and Brienne flew into motion and slammed side by side into the men trying to run through the stable door, immediately filling the night with the sound of steel clashing against steel. Sandor shifted half a glance between her and Stranger, stuffed his bridle into her hands and her in beside Stranger, already vaulting over the wall of the stall unsheathing his sword and throwing himself at the men trying to force their way through the small door at the back.

Sansa watched petrified as Sandor moved fluidly between his opponents, black hair flying as he unleashed his frightening force of raw violence. She saw truly how different a melee was from a real swordfight, Sandor’s sword already dripping red as he thrust and blocked, dodged, turned and thrust again, fighting three men at the same time and moving with a speed and precision that impressed her despite everything. He shouldered one of the men into the wall and wrenched the man’s arm around, blocking a low thrust from the left before slamming the screaming man right into his comrade’s swordpoint, using the shocked pause to get a grip of the shield of one of the men, cutting off the arm-straps and half of the man’s arm as he wrenched it to him, flipped it around and held on to it only by its hand grip, suddenly attacking twice as fast using the shield both to block and slam into the two men fighting for their lives. To keep her safe. And here she stood, frozen in fear, not doing the one task that was set for her.

With her brain suddenly working again, she tried to regain some sort of semblance of calm as she moved up Stranger’s side, stroking him and reaching after his halter with steady hands. He flattened his ears and tensed, tightening his lips, but stood still, trained to ignore all the noise from clashing steel and screaming men, even if the other horses were nearing a frenzy. Praying to the Gods, old and new, Sansa unbuckled and eased the halter over Stranger’s nose and fastened it again around his neck. The courser turned his head and looked at her flicking his ears back and forth, making Sansa feel a surge of fear in her stomach as he`d always been securely tied up before. She started to hum the Mother’s hymn while men fought and died around her, realizing the irony, but thinking it had worked on Sandor when he was half out of his wits as she draped the reins over Stranger’s neck, stroking his handsome face as she laid her arm around his head inching his bridle on, asking him nicely to take the bit. He did, but bit the air and threw on his head, making fastening the buckles difficult, if not impossible. But she managed it and Sandor’s troublesome horse was ready to be ridden out of this death-trap, her meagre contribution to their common fight.

She heard Sandor shout something at Brienne and Jaime, and turned her head in time to see just how effective the pair was fighting in trained unison, Jaime’s left-handed use of his sword confusing every instinct in his opponents, Brienne quick and strong on his right side. Standing close to Stranger, depending on him to take down anyone trying to enter his stall, Sansa wondered distantly where all the slashing of young boys playing with wooden sword went, because none of those movements seemed to be used in real combat. Thrusting and blocking in a steady rhythm with murderous efficiency, Brienne and Jaime held the door until they suddenly stepped back, the both of them together, sending two men stumbling through and right into Sandor’s brutal lack of mercy. And that was it. The last man standing was roughly shoved to his knees by Jaime, his helmet roughly pulled off by Sandor, and his name rolled from Sansa and Brienne’s lips at the same time.

“Ser Shadric,” they said, Sansa in disgust, Brienne in dark recognition.

The Mad Mouse looked defiantly at them, his fiery hair dark with sweat and his sharp nose bleeding. He grinned at them both.

“He knows who you are, I met him with a merchant on my way to Duskendale,” Brienne warned. Ser Shadric`s grin widened maliciously.

“The men from Lord Harroway’s Town are coming, I heard them, probably dismounting outside right this instant. And now that I know who you are trying to disappear with, _Alayne,_ this will be even more rewarding for me.” His eyes flickered from her breasts to the faces of her companions before he chuckled.

Sansa felt a heavy weight settle on her shoulders as she heard faint shouts and moving horses from outside. Knowing the price of failure, she also understood that the only people who knew their real names were in this room with Shadric. Even if the Mad Mouse didn`t realize it, Petyr would never tell who she really was to mere search parties, the risk too great in the game of thrones. And knowing how much bloodshed she would unleash if captured, the Blackfish and the great lords of the Vale combined with the lords of the Riverlands searching for her, rousing the remnants of the north again, there was no choice. _Gods, please have mercy on my soul._ Wondering if her father had felt the same sadness when dealing in harsh justice, the words dropped like stones from her mouth.

“Slit their throats,” she said quietly, winter’s chill in her voice and heart, feeling her father’s shadow raise Ice as Sandor met her gaze and obeyed without question, giving Ser Shadric a red smile before he managed to shout.

Two more men were put down rapidly and knowing she was personally responsible for three lives lost, Sansa wasted no more time, but threw Stranger’s reins to Sandor and loosened Guardian. Jaime was already leading Honour over the bodies lying inside the back door. He hitched up the hood of his cloak and spoke quickly as they heard the jingling of armoured men and shouts from the backyard, followed by running footsteps.

“There`s a door out of the sheepfold through here, cover up,” he said, words clipped and commanding. Sandor strode up beside him, already hooded and leading Stranger, who trampled the dead men like they were driftwood.

“Keep up, ladies,” he rasped, making Brienne snort, before both men kicked down the flimsy walls beside the door, making it wide enough to get the horses through. They were already running through the second door out into the snow when they heard armoured men pouring into the stable, angry commands echoing through the building. Sandor threw her up onto Guardian’s saddle, telling her urgently to get her arse up and hold on tight, before mounting an already cantering Stranger, Brienne and Jaime closing in around her. And then they ran, jumping over the fence out of the sheep pasture and galloping towards the inn’s entrance and the gaping innkeeper talking to two men on horseback.

Brienne and Jaime steered her to the right against the fence to get her out of harm’s way, while Sandor charged the men on horseback. Sansa couldn`t look away as Stranger surged forward, highly trained and fearless, making the two horses ahead skitter under their riders who fumbled with the reins as their worst nightmare rode them down. Turning in the saddle Sansa saw Sandor easily deflect a clumsy thrust with his stolen shield, his sword already leaving the other soldier’s vulnerable armpit, flinging drops of blood as Stranger sat back on his hocks in a sudden halt and raised his powerful front, wheeling around and slamming his shoulder into the other horse, making its rider lose his balance long enough for Sandor to take his throat out before thundering after Sansa and her faithful guards.

Sansa had never in her life jumped a fence like that, seen Sandor and Stranger in combat together, or run so fast on horseback, let alone in the middle of the night with snow flying into her eyes. Despite everything that had just happened, she suddenly froze, horrified at the thought of falling off. It made her bounce in the saddle immediately, out of step with Guardian’s pace. Jaime turned in his saddle and shouted something to Sandor, his answer making Sansa tense even more.

“We can`t bloody take them down if they all come, Lion, unless you have a fucking archer with the sight of an owl in your saddlebags. This is all the head start we`ll get on twenty buggering sods with bared steel, and I`m not fucking giving her up for anything!” Sandor roared back, and met her gaze, seeing her bouncing in the saddle, white-knuckled grip on the reins with her hands twined into Guardian’s mane. Seeing her frozen in fright. He exchanged glances with Jaime, and they changed place in their tight formation without losing speed, Stranger throwing his head up, protesting most thoroughly at not being able to run even faster.

“Sansa! Little Bird, get your arse up for fuck’s sake!” he shouted at her over the thundering of hooves, snowflakes flying past. She couldn`t even answer, just kept trying to hold on to her madly sprinting horse, now on a snow-covered road in a slight downward curve, cursing inwardly at never being interested as a child, never getting enough experience. Dimly feeling Sandor’s hand under her cloak, hoisting her up by her belt, she noticed how Guardian instantly went into a more rhythmic pace. Before she unceremoniously received a mighty slap over her bottom, making her scream in shock and indignation, instantly shaking her out of her frightened daze. She turned to Sandor, furious, and he grinned back at her.

“Keep your amazing behind _up,_ and let Guardian fucking _go._ Trust me,” he shouted hoarsely, for some reason making Sansa think he was pleading with her, even if it didn`t showed in his voice. And she did trust him. So she gave Guardian loose reins and let him go, exploding forwards while stretching his neck, flattening his ears and dragging the other horses up until they competed head against head down the twists and turns of the road, in a world so mysteriously light despite the darkness. _Well, here is my trust, I can`t even see because of the snowflakes in my eyes. My life is in your hands now my small, ragged pack._ It reminded her of her father’s saying, about when winter comes and the lone wolf dies, the pack survives. In a way it felt thrilling to know that there were people left in this world that she could trust with her life. Living in concealment and mistrust for so long did something to you, she supposed.

Racing half blinded down into the deep woods towards the riverlands, Sansa thought that there were worse ways to end her life if it came to that, than with the man she secretly loved and people she grudgingly found she trusted completely.


	19. Why excellent horses and ordinary tents are necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Sansa concentrated on breathing and keeping her bottom up as the horses galloped flat out down the road, feeling her fear surge when Guardian leaned into the bends, closing her eyes as large snowflakes blinded her, but insistently trying to think fond thoughts of iron-studded horseshoes as she continued to try standing balanced over her mount, receiving a ‘good girl’ from Sandor at her right. She ignored the praise haughtily, as she wasn`t certain she`d forgiven him for slapping her across the bum yet, it still hurt, but maybe that was his intention as she was less prone to sit down on it now…

When the horses finally started slowing down of their own accord, blowing but happy, ears forwards, there was no sign of men behind them in the strangely lit world of darkness on snow that surrounded them. They cantered the horses down until they`d stopped blowing, Sansa’s legs burning with the strain of standing in the stirrups, never knowing holding her bottom up could be that tiring. Jaime and Sandor seemed to have their own soldiers’ language consisting mainly of glances, making Sansa strangely jealous when they exchanged such a glance and Jaime immediately went straight for the woods.

She upbraided herself for her childish reaction, reminding herself that she was annoyed with Sandor and was in danger besides. Turning her mind to the matter at hand knowing their only chance was to get as far away as possible, hoping the snow obscured their tracks before the men on lesser quality horses than their own caught up. The snow reached no more than half way up the mounts’ shanks at the moment, and with the heavy snowfall covering the ground she decided that hope tasted better than despair. Sandor sat quietly on top of a high spirited Stranger who was trotting on the spot, half rearing and throwing his head, his rider looking a bit too attractive in his armour, if it hadn`t been for the blood she knew that covered him.

“I`ll put some more tracks around,” Sandor said gruffly. “The bastards’ own hoof prints going up the road will be conveniently confusing with the snow, unless they`re fucking poachers the lot of them, but we still need false tracks leading into the forest. Keep going, I`ll catch up. Let`s just bloody hope they haven`t found hounds out of bleeding nowhere… unless we could manage to lure some of the dog-handlers into an ambush, we could have used one or two of their charges for hunting in the weeks to come…” Jaime turned in his saddle looking exasperated.

“Really, Clegane, do you _have_ to frighten her even more,” he said nodding in Sansa’s direction. “I`m sure we would have heard if they`d had dogs with them. As you are a perfect example right now, dogs never seem to shut up when they should. I agree, hounds could have been an advantage, but they can also be a real pain in the arse. Just look at us, the only dog we have refuses to be a hound anymore, or else we could have used _you_ for hunting!” Sandor looked contemptuously at the cheekily grinning Lion for a moment before shaking his head.

“You`re degraded to tomcat, Jaime, a wet one,” he rasped before wheeling an excited Stranger around and jumping into the woods on the other side of the road.

Sansa rode between Jaime and Brienne, watching Honour’s powerful rump as they let their horses trot through the snow, lifting their legs high when meeting deep drifts. This time she didn`t voice the worry overtaking her irritation, but kept glancing behind them making Brienne smile reassuringly at her from Daisy’s broad back. _Easy for you, Brienne, Jaime`s right here._ Knowing Sandor could take care of himself and that they were doing everything they could to get away, Sansa started thinking about last night instead, trying to distract herself from the fright in her stomach.

It was quite a gift to receive Sandor’s deeply buried affection, his pleasures and will to give her time. She`d braced herself to be really direct with him after the second time he`d fallen drunk into her bed. It was not at all like she`d been taught to behave as a lady, either the arranged marriage a lady was supposed to bear with dignity for her House’s sake or the ladylike way of being wooed and courted in the stories. Of course, she didn`t want the storybook version anymore, giggling silently at the thought of Sandor singing her serenades beneath her window, and knowing he would have laughed himself to pieces at the mere thought of reciting poems. It still felt… different, taking the bastard way when it wasn`t a game anymore. Being the fair lady who tried to trip the non-knight into her arms. But after watching Randa flip knights on their backs for entertainment, she shouldn`t be surprised that she herself could do it for love, Sansa supposed.

And it had worked! Because when she`d made her interests plain, she seemed to have broken some boundary inside him and he had looked at her differently and flirted back, clearly showing her he desired her, touching her thigh and kissing her so wonderfully before giving her so much pleasure. It was strange, because he certainly knew what he was doing, was still pretty intimidating and had obviously had more women than he could remember, according to Jaime, but at the same time she had an amazing feeling that they were each other’s first… love. _He must love me, why else wait to take my maidenhead?_

The thought alone set her heart racing. His scarred face didn`t seem ugly to her at all anymore, the scars on his body just heightening his magnificence and he attracted her so powerfully that she had trouble breathing properly when he locked his grey gaze to hers. She even secretly loved the thought that kissing him could never be like kissing anybody else. Sandor was so tall and broad that even being a tall girl herself, she felt petite in comparison, and his lips were firm, the scarring thrilling so that his kisses sent her into such a state of love and lust that she still felt a bit dazed. And aroused.

How could he have this effect on her _now?_ This was the second time he`d made her ache between her legs when she was frightened and in grave danger, and he wasn`t even with her! Riding silently through blue-tinted woods in the middle of the night, hearing the horses’ even breathing, the creak of leather, smelling the mounts’ sweat as they trotted and watching the foggy structures of old trees covered in snow as she tried to escape hell, her thoughts kept returning to the amazing feeling of Sandor’s strong muscular body and hot skin against hers. She felt a pang of lust at the thought of his hard manhood and how he`d moaned when she`d touched him through his breeches, his hands on her breasts and the way he looked when aroused, how he moved. The sensible part of her mind was hoping they would live through the night, and the lovesick part wanted to stay alive for the chance to kiss and touch him and be sent into waves of pleasure by him again. _How can anyone manage anything great when in love? My brain is turning to mush…_

She remembered the night of the Hand’s tourney and the way he`d told her about his burns and his brother, and thought he`d already at that point let her in. She`d just been too little to understand it even if she`d felt sorry for him and he`d been too drunk, too frustrated and too angry to do anything other than threaten her with her life. He`d frightened her so much some of the times she had been alone with him in King’s Landing, not understanding how he`d tried to protect her, not understanding his harsh ways at all, but he _had_ been infatuated with her and his presence in public had made her feel safe.

After watching Littlefinger control everything around him for so long, Sansa wondered if some of her attraction to Sandor was the unpredictable, uncontrollable and violent part of his headstrong, rough nature. Even being a Lannister dog he`d done things his own way when it came to her, never hurting her, not even at a direct command. Even with the burning rage gone, he would always be a dangerous, harsh and brutal man, but she was obviously the eye of his storm, he`d even started looking at her with something akin to respect. Of course, she couldn`t take his language and manners personally, it was part of who he was, a part of what made him exciting. She`d started to wonder if he would have actually liked it if she`d yelled back at him in King’s Landing… he seemed to like it now when she was blunt with him… she thought back then he would have mocked her and laughed at her, but liked it nonetheless… but he might as well have dangled her upside down from the battlements. _Or spanked me._

Her bottom didn`t hurt anymore, though, and it _had_ stayed out of the saddle letting Guardian do his job. Grudgingly accepting that Sandor had yet again used his rough ways to protect her, she gave a start as all three horses stopped suddenly, turning their heads to their left and topping their ears. Making Jaime and Brienne unsheathed their swords and put themselves between her and what ever made the mounts react. Sansa felt fear creep into her bones again. The eerily beautiful, indigo forest covered in snow suddenly contained all manner of frightening shadows and muffled noises, fallen trees creating hiding places for whole squads in Sansa’s mind. Long thin branches were clawing at the sky, velvet snow on pine needles making them look like giants and all the monsters from Old Nan’s stories. And out of it all came Sandor cantering an excited Stranger. He stopped before them, and rubbed his immensely proud mount’s neck, eyes meeting hers through hair hanging in icy strands as he gave her a half smile, but spoke to them all.

“I made several tracks ending on the road again, and some ending nowhere. The track here is run through all the marshes I could find, Stranger being a bloody hero - yes you fucking are, boy - so the buggers will have a hard time pissing around in snow and mud up to their chests if they choose that path.” He looked like nothing would please him more than Petyr’s men dying slowly of cold and exhaustion, with black mire-water mercilessly filling their lungs as they gave up their struggles.

Brienne grinned and sheathed her sword, sending Jaime a sidelong glance and looking happy when he placed himself at the rear with her, giving the van of their small party to Sandor. He pressed on, Stranger’s winter-coat curly with sweat, steaming in the chilled air, white foam on his neck by the reins, covering his chest and snaking down his black legs in white and muddy stripes. The other horses looked similar, Sansa discovered, but they all seemed in a brilliant mood, ears topped and ready for much more as they lowered their heads and plodded forward through the snow, all three of them in perfect condition and eager after being stabled for a day and a half. Except Stranger’s light exercise with her, but she weighed about a third of his usual rider, so that couldn`t count for much. If they lived through this she _would_ lure Sandor into a grain balance one day… Sansa suddenly felt really fond of both Stranger and Guardian, for their strengths and happiness at being worked, for her Guardian’s gentleness and Stranger for reminding her of Sandor. Stroking her brilliant mount’s neck as they continued their flight, trying to lose their invisible pursuers, Sansa suddenly realized how much difference there was between an excellent mount and a fairly good one.

Even the best of horses got tired, though, so they soon switched to leading them by the reins in intervals to keep them fresh. The mountain forest was also a quite demanding terrain, even though Sandor followed the curves of the land, avoiding deep ravines and clefts, it was still full of boulders, rocks and juniper bushes which made traps under the snow, the wild forest sporting generations of fallen threes and treacherous marshes where the terrain evened out. Their otherwise steep descent to the riverlands was quiet and beautiful in the blue muffled light of snowy darkness, but still dangerous if you didn`t know what you were doing. Praising Guardian as he slid on his hocks after her down a slope, Sansa couldn`t help thinking that it must be an absolute nightmare to try to track someone down in this without dogs. As for the dog amongst them, he seemed completely at ease, skidding down dips in the terrain, Stranger jumping after him and looking like he was having the night of his life playing with his master. Sansa watched in wonderment how Sandor seemed as at home reading the growth of trees to knowing how the ground was beneath the snow as standing guard at court, rumbling directions at the humans and quiet commands at his horse, steadily getting them deeper and deeper into the forest without losing his way. Or so it seemed to Sansa, at least.

“How did you learn to fare safely in the forest? Is it something all squires need to learn?” she ended up asking him curiously when they let the horses drink from a stream Sandor had broken the ice on.

He regarded her silently, all large and impassive in his armour, grey eyes hard as flint, making her feel an intruder somehow. She was about to apologize if she`d said something wrong, when he suddenly flicked his gaze to their companions, finding them occupied with arranging a hasty bandage around Brienne’s arm. Sandor exhaled deeply and bent down and touched Stranger’s fetlock muttering ‘up’ making the horse obediently lift his leg.

“Where do you think I fared most safely as a boy, Little Bird? At home or anywhere else? When home is the last place in the world you want to be as a lad, but you _have_ to at some point, you tend to drag whatever you`re doing out…” he muttered down at Stranger’s left front hoof. Sansa didn`t quite know what to say to that, until she remembered the agony of knowing she would have to obey Joffrey’s summons, how the ever-present anxiety of never being safe had made her close off the side that was herself, trying to preserve it somehow. Wouldn`t she have dragged it out in the woods if she could have? _Did I drag it out in the godswood sometimes?_

“I know the feeling,” she replied softly, taking off her glove and letting cold, black hair slide through her fingers as she stroked his neck gently, making him look up at her, surprised. “I wish I`d had a real forest in King’s Landing…” Sandor let go of the hoof and straightened, the burnt side of his mouth twitching, but somehow ending up in a wry smile instead of the expected scowl.

“Bet you did,” he answered, stoking her cheek in return with fingers covered in dried blood, making her feel like the three words were giving her access to some kind of unspoken respect in his world. An equal understanding of the world’s… shitty concepts of childhood, she supposed. She put her hand on top of his and leaned into his palm, the blood on his hands was on her soul anyway, seeing how he froze meeting her gaze, silently sharing a knowledge of being together against the world from now on, at least… But then he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and took his hand back, a pained look on his face as he turned his back on her, leaving Sansa confused.

After a quick check to exclude any more wounds that needed immediate tending, they chewed on dried meat as they continued onwards, riding and walking in intervals as the snow kept drifting heavily down in large flakes. Sansa concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other when they walked beside their mounts, soon feeling annoyed about how long it was between Sandor’s footprints in the snow, making it difficult to find a steady rhythm when one foot matched a print and the other sank through to her knee in the white blanket covering the ground. That and half drifting into sleep when riding.

Remembering Brienne’s advice about ignoring the pain and thinking of something else, she kept her complaints to herself and started thinking of the _nice_ part of her childhood instead, mentally blowing dust off the memories of Winterfell, knowing they were something valuable and fragile. And therefore suddenly discovering that she hadn`t noticed that the sun was coming up, shifting their muffled blue world into violet and nearly pink through the snowdrifts, before settling on a bleak daylight, creating grey shadows on white snow. _Stark colours, a good omen. Please say it is…_

Sandor kept on for hours longer until he found a place he was satisfied with, making camp high in the terrain, but with a cliff behind them and a lower level of the hill beside it where they could tether the tired horses unseen, the large pines there giving them shelter besides. Jaime looked around and murmured something about the camp being easily defensible and Brienne started erecting their tents and throwing in their things after rubbing Daisy down.

Sansa rubbed Guardian down as well, before Sandor showed her how to fasten the woollen blanket from the inn around her faithful mount, keeping him warm as his coat dried. His large hands brushed hers as they worked, sending sparks of longing through her, making her blush as they gave each other a sideways glance, making her want to kiss him again despite being exhausted, watching from under her woollen cap at the way he swallowed. At least he didn`t seem upset anymore.

They gave the horses their precious hay, Sansa wondering how the mounts would survive feeding off the land from then on, but being too tired to ask. Having oats to give them helped, though, she thought, and silently praised her experienced companion’s quick thinking in a stressed situation. Then she staggered up to their tents with Sandor’s heavy footfalls behind her, trying to keep awake long enough to not fall asleep in the snow.

After she`d methodically freed Sandor of his armour, Sansa tiredly watched the soldiers clean their gear of blood and… other things she didn`t like to think about, Jaime threw one look at her face and grinned at her, looking annoyingly fresh after the strain of the last hours.

“Sansa, go get some sleep. We`ve lived through the night and half the day, and with such a snowfall we`ll probably live through tomorrow as well. We`re the famous needle in the haystack here, or wolves in the woods if you please. Seven hells! Haven`t thought about it that way before. Ha! My father’s bones will be turning in their tomb! Right, anyway, I`ll take first watch, my very ragged lady.”

And then he and Sandor exchanged glances again, both looking at her at the same time before Brienne joined in, rolling her eyes and turning around to walk alone for one of the tents, making both men grin ruefully after her. _For heaven’s sake, does every-one but me know this language?_

Sandor followed her and stopped, gaze flickering between her and their simple sleeping arrangements. “Do you want to sleep by yourself or with me?” he grumbled, picking up a handful of snow and rubbed it into his face, neck and hands, making the snow pink with the dried blood of Petyr’s men and managing to look nearly bored, as if he didn`t care one way or another if he slept with her or Brienne. Sansa smiled tiredly at the large warrior, thinking he reacted like a boy sometimes. _Are you so afraid that I will reject you?_ He probably was, she reflected, and felt her love for him surge.

“Why do you even ask after last night?” she murmured, feeling herself redden as she brushed the snow off her clothes and loosened the laces on her boots. He looked relieved, but still hesitant.

“After a day like this you might not like sharing blankets with your blood-spattered henchman,” he answered in his hoarse rasp, but started brushing snow off his breeches nonetheless.

“You are more to me than a sword, Sandor,” she answered quietly, before crawling into the tent, putting her boots at the back of the canvas. She rolled out their bedrolls and organized the blankets, wondering if even that subtle way of telling him she cared about him was too much for a man not used to being loved. But then the tent flap moved and Sandor lowered his large body inside, filling the tent and making her heart beat faster with the sudden intimacy. They took off their cloaks, laid down on the bedrolls and arranged the blankets around them with the cloaks on top.

And then they lay looking at each other quietly, something pure and exciting building between them, rapidly turning into longing and lust as the silence dragged out, Sansa’s exhaustion suddenly forgotten. Sandor reached out and pulled her towards him, slate-grey eyes filled with something unreadable, but nearly soft, so different from how he usually looked at people. Sansa laid her arms around his neck and kissed him lovingly, trying to tell him how she felt about him. He responded instantly, pressing her to him and stroked her back while he started moving his lips slowly over hers, sending fluttering sparks of arousal and love down her spine.

He rolled her onto her back and lay heavily on top of her, his black hair falling into his eyes as he loosened her braid, making her own hair a tangle as he twined his fingers into it with an expression of pleasure on his face.

“You have barely slept, fought and fled and walked for hours in snow and armour, I would have thought you too tired for this,” she whispered, trying and failing to sound innocent. Sandor grinned back at her.

“I would have done that twice over if you`d asked it of me, and still wanted to be near you,” he replied in his hoarse whisper and started kissing her neck, sending waves of lust and pleasure spiralling through her body, making her instantly ache for him.

“Oh my… Sandor, that was nearly chivalrous, do you know that?” she breathed into his hair, making him freeze. And roll off her onto his back again.

“Fuck, you`re right. That`s one level I`m not bloody willing to sink to. Let’s just call it bloodlust and I`ll stick to the lowlife way of cutting your clothes off and taking your maidenhead no matter what you say about it,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“You wouldn`t have done that,” Sansa grinned at him. Sandor stretched heavy arms and looked at her, something dangerous glinting in his hard, grey eyes even as he smiled ruefully.

“Wouldn`t I?” he said mockingly in his harsh rasp, filling the tent with his muscular body and sheer presence, radiating something dark and frightening that for some reason just made Sansa unbelievably aroused, knowing she was in control if she wanted it. She moved on top of him and lowered her lips to his ear, feeling how he hardened against her as she blushingly breathed her words into his ear.

“No, you wouldn`t have. You won`t. Because you`ve already said that you won`t do anything to me I don`t want you to in bed, and I know I can trust you. I think forcing me would only give you an empty release. I`m your Little Bird, after all, you want me wet and willing, grinding myself against you and moaning your name in pleasure as I beg you to take my maidenhead, beg for you inside me.”

“Seven hells, Sansa, when did you get so spirited?” he gasped raggedly, his breathing instantly fast and heavy, his arousal confirming that she`d been right in her love and trust, telling her she knew a part of him nobody else did. Sandor wrapped his arms around her as she started moving her body up and down against his hardened member, groaning silently into her hair when she kissed him under his ear, kissing and biting him gently down his neck, feeling his hands move to grip her bum as he moved his hips in pace with her, sending lust slamming through her. But then he turned them both once more, pinning her back down into the bedroll.

“You`re annoyingly right, my sweet Little Bird, I want that a bit too much, and I don`t even fucking know how you do this to me,” he whispered, his scarred lips brushing hers, “I`ll gladly wait for you to… oh seven hells, woman… moan my name… and… beg me,” he pressed his face into her neck, breathing rapidly and groaned quietly as she wrapped her legs around him, but Sansa somehow thought his reaction was mostly to repeating her bold words, taking them in. “But you _should_ know how bloody hard it is to keep myself in check,” he finished in his hoarse whisper, and kissed her, confident and deep, letting his tongue trace her lips and move against her own, his teeth biting her lower lip gently as his hands tugged up the fastenings of her jacket, unbuckling her belt, his hard manhood teasing her nub as he rolled his hips up against her, sending her into a raging arousal that made her whimper into his mouth no matter how hard she tried to be silent.

He stroked her stomach and unlaced her breeches making her pant in anticipation and almost cry out in disappointment when he just moved his hands up her belly and under her tunics. Until she realized where he was going, longing for the wonderful feeling of his hands on her breasts, feeling her nipples harden in anticipation. But he stopped right beneath them, teasing her as he slowly let his calloused fingers trace the underside of her breasts, smiling into their kiss as he had done yesterday, waiting her out. She squirmed longingly underneath him, bucked her hips to rub him through his breeches, and kissed him with all her being to make him loose it and touch her. Loving the way he panted and half closed his eyes as he pressed himself towards her and gasped against her lips before regaining control.

Sandor dragged up her tunic and undertunic, exposing her breasts to the chilled air of winter, heightening her senses before slowly cupping one breast, moving his hand oh so alluringly. She broke the kiss and buried her face in his neck, biting him as she tried to strangle the moan that escaped her lips when he at last lightly stroked his thumb over her nipple, her back arching for more, feeling how a rush of wetness made her smallclothes cling. “Please,” she whispered, feeling herself go scarlet, but too dazed by lust to care, “Please touch me.”

Sandor responded by exhaling sharply, raggedly, pressing her towards him and turning them onto their sides, dragging her breeches down her legs as Sansa lifted her hips eagerly. He hurriedly dragged off her jacket and his coat, too, before resuming his intensely pleasurable torture, stroking her breasts and circling her nipples, but always stopping half an inch away, driving her into a frenzy. When he finally let his hand slide up her legs she nearly felt angry with him for doing this to her, but it felt so incredible good, too, goose bumps and tingling lust racing through her at the same time, his hands sliding to the inside of her thighs, stroking gently from her butt cheeks and forward, nearly touching her, fingers drawing circles and lingering treacherously near her ladyparts. Finally he stroked lightly over her mound, making her gasp for breath while he kissed her right beneath her ear and down her throat. She felt like she was going to die from sheer unfulfilled lust and arousal, embarrassingly wet and aching between her legs as she wanted him to touch her so badly, discovering a want for more than that, too, suddenly dazed by arousal at the _real_ thought of him inside her, making her hips move slightly of their own accord, the rest of her body a whirlwind of pleasure and longing.

It was a small comfort that Sandor seemed to be on his knees with need, too. But seeing that he rubbed the bulge in his breeches with his wrist before moving his hand up to fist her hair, groaning silently into her mouth as he kissed her hungrily, only fanned her lust even more. He noticed, and smiled as he moved to her neck again, kissing his way down and taking her wanting nipple in his mouth, licking her, biting her carefully, tugging gently at her hair as he lightly touched her between her legs, sending her into an inferno of heavy need for release as she spread them wide for him, putting one leg over his hip. He made a strangled sound at that and shoved her other thigh up against his rock hard member, gasping when he felt her wetness. Sansa felt thrilled at the thought that it turned him on feeling her aroused. And then his hands made thoughts impossible as he dipped the tip of one big finger inside her, before sliding easily forwards, parting her lips as he lightly touched her nub with his fingertips. He moved two fingers gently, tentatively stroking her with fluttering fingers until he suddenly hit just the right spot. She moaned soundlessly, tightening a grip she didn`t know she had in his hair, trying to keep quiet as her body stood a step away from the drop into ecstasy.

He shifted to take her other nipple into his mouth, licking her, biting gently as he moved his hand, sliding one finger against her opening and groaning softly as she tilted her hips trying to press his fingertip into her again, surprised when it didn`t hurt. He lay still for a moment, breathing hard, before resuming stroking her nub, light and rhythmic, making a low moan escape her lips as he increased the pressure slightly in pace with the movement of her hips.

“More,” she breathed, “deeper.” Sandor raised his head and looked at her, his eyes searching but filled with desire, and kissed her parted lips gently as he carefully started moving his finger in and out of her, slightly deeper for each thrust as he continued moving his thumb over her nub. Creating a new, deep sort of pleasure as she felt her body tighten around his finger for release making her gasp for breath.

“I can`t go deeper or you`ll be someone else’s wife, Little Bird,” he groaned. _Someone_ else’s _wife? Do you want me to be yours?_ But Sansa couldn`t respond, desperately pushing his head down to her breast, feeling the stubble on his cheek as he licked her. She was so close! Bucking her hips and feeling the wonderful fulfilling pleasure of his finger moving inside her, his thumb teasing her nub, his mouth sucking her nipple, she brutally tugged up the lacings of his tunic and undershirt, fumbling a hand down to touch the hard muscles of his chest as she was there… now… please just… please…

And then he stopped, removing the finger from inside her. His grey eyes were hazy with intense need, his hair tousled around his face and his manhood rock hard against her thigh as his hips kept grinding him towards her, his palm on her mound shaking slightly with his competent fingers just a quarter of an inch away from her nub. He looked deep into her eyes before giving her a most vicious smile, breathing hard and whispering raggedly.

“You know what you`re missing right now, my beautiful Little Bird. _Sansa._ Even with all the pleasure you`ve just received, you know what is waiting only a movement away. Hard, eh? Being patient? _Honourable?”_

Unfortunately, Sandor’s quiet demonstration of dominance was the last push Sansa needed before crashing into a massive release, moving her hips forward and grinding her nub against his fingers, moaning no matter how she tried to keep her mouth shut as he gave her what she wanted, tightening his hold on her hair and sliding his finger into her again, moving it in pace with the pleasure exploding through her as his thumb rubbed her nub, his mouth sucking and biting her nipples gently as wave after wave of shimmering bliss carried her into another level of consciousness. Sandor continued to move his fingers and mouth even when she couldn`t move herself anymore, but _needed_ just the last waves of a pleasure she`d only experienced with him.

When she slowly came to herself again, she found one very obviously aroused Sandor Clegane grinning widely at her.

“You just raped me, Lady Stark.” Sansa felt herself blush furiously, making Sandor chuckle. “Imagine that, me a buggering maiden fair and everything, and you just fucking ruined me with your utter lack of self control. Straight to the Wall with you, you brute!” he whispered laughingly, making Sansa laugh with him, giving him a hard shove in his chest, accomplishing nothing, but silently thinking that he had a point.

“You didn`t seem to mind, though,” she whispered smilingly back, and touched him through the fabric of his breeches. Sandor groaned, the laughter in his voice instantly replaced with hard breathing, and he gasped raggedly when she tentatively pressed her bare breasts against him. He started kissing her hungrily, unlacing himself and starting to stroke his manhood in a desperate search for his own release, making Sansa’s lust surge again. Not knowing how to do things the other way around, she put his free hand to her breast as he clearly liked touching her there and kissed him passionately. But then she gathered her courage and reached down to touch his member without any clothes in the way, marvelling at how silky his skin was there, getting instantly and incredibly aroused once more by the way his hand moved up and down his shaft. He panted into her hair, and moaned softly when he felt her hand on him, folding his much larger hand over hers and continuing to stroke himself, while his hips started to move in pace with their hands.

Sansa looked enthralled at the pleasure on his face, lips parted as he breathed raggedly, his eyes dazed when he looked at her face, his other hand grabbing a handful of her hair, before touching her breast again. Seeing him in such pleasure made her love for him glow inside her even if she couldn`t tell him straight out yet. But she could whisper another truth into his ear.

“Nobody could ever compare to you, do you know that?” she breathed, hearing how he made a small sound in the back of his throat. “I think I`ve mentally dismissed every man I`ve met since I started to understand what went on between men and women, because nobody was half the man you are.” His breath hitched instantly and she held him tight as he peaked, amazed by how powerfully he seemed to respond to her words, his seed coming in hot spurts on her thighs and mound as his whole body went rigid, her hand continuing the movement without him. Not uttering a sound. Just like he had in the Vale.

She waited until he had had time to calm down, but then she really needed to say it. “You did get a release when you f… fucked me through my clothes!” she whispered excitedly, pulling down her tunics.

“What in the Stranger’s name did you think I was doing?” he murmured dazedly back, tucking himself into his breeches. “Seven bleeding hells, you make me react like I`m a buggering squire with my first woman in a barn, _every fucking time!_ It`s bloody embarrassing!”

“No it`s not, I`m just relieved because I thought you might have thought me wanton when I peaked and didn`t like it, because you just stiffened and I couldn`t feel your manhood anymore,” she replied blushingly while she tried to dry herself off with her handkerchief. Sandor looked incredulously at her.

“I like you wanton!” he rasped, and took over drying her thighs. Sansa didn`t know if she should feel offended or not as she laced her breeches again.

“Don`t say that about me, it`s… unladylike,” she whispered persistently. Sandor gave her an exasperated look before dragging her towards him.

“What is finding your pleasures with a fucking blood-spattered retainer supposed to be, then? Ladylike?” he stroked her neck, positively making her purr despite being slightly annoyed, feeling just how tired she was again and having no answer to his question beside trying and failing to glower at him.

Sandor shook his head. “Seven save me from high-born maidens,” he breathed into her hair, as he wrapped his arms tight around her, instantly falling asleep.


	20. Two kinds of warriors and a mirror of truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review if you feel like it :-)

Sandor was woken by Jaime snapping the canvas of the tent for second watch. He yawned and stretched his back out of old habit, feeling his hits from the fight, before catching himself and wrapping his arms around the spirited Little Bird who slept on his chest. 

“I`m awake, just fuck off for a moment,” he grumbled hoarsely at the Lion. Sansa was so bloody tempting where she laid, her arms around him tightening when he moved and her hair in an auburn tangle disappearing under the covers, silky tresses framing her face. For the first time in his life he just _needed_ to lie like this, being held tightly in a woman’s arms for just a little while longer. _Seven hells, I`m as lost as a peasant with a full pouch in fleabottom._ Threading his fingers into her mane, he marvelled that something could feel that bloody soft and silky, the feeling of her hair as he ran his fingers through it, touched it, the colour of it, had always made something stir inside him, making him want to be near her. And now he was fucking allowed. He looked at her face, her long lashes resting on her cheeks and her mouth slightly open, breathing quietly. The bruise she had received did nothing to diminish her beauty, the swelling had even gone down a bit, but he felt his anger rise hot and strong at his own failure to protect her as he lightly stroked her cheek.

It had been a fucking pleasure to see the terror in the bastard’s broken face as he had woken up to Sandor leaning over his bed, stuffing his shattered mouth full of rags, before breaking his fingers one by one as Sandor questioned him. The feeling of kicking in his ribs, knowing the broken splinters had pierced the fucking lowlife’s lungs, leaving him in pain for a good while before Sandor slit his throat messily, had slowly made some of his intense rage cool down. But as it still started to simmer every time he looked closely at the deep purple bruise on Sansa’s cheek, he wondered if he could ever kill enough such creatures to quell the nauseous memories of standing by watching his Little Bird being beaten in King’s Landing. 

Knowing ‘a moment’ was already gone, he started to untangle himself gently from Sansa’s embrace, feeling the loss immediately as he put her down on her bedroll, stroking her bloody magnificent hair out of her face, making her sigh in her sleep. He wanted to kiss her, too, knowing it would be a long march before the next time he`d be able to hold her. If she`d want him to. And it bloody well seemed like she would, considering the things she`d told him earlier. He bent down and let his mouth brush against her lips and then kissed her gently as she didn`t seemed to mind in her sleep. She made a small noise and stretched out an arm after him, hooking it around his neck and dragging him down on top of her, kissing him back. The way she melted into him, pressing herself against his body, instantly made hard stabs of lust whirl through him. Being able to stroke his hands down her amazing body before getting a grip on himself only heightened the sensation before he broke the kiss. She blinked sleepily at him and smiled so sweetly that it fucking hurt. Wanting nothing more than to let Jaime freeze his balls off in the snow, Sandor nonetheless knew he needed to relieve the bastard before they ended up with a sleeping sentry.

“I need to go do my guard-duty, _my lady,_ ” he rasped at her. She smiled and stretched, arching her back and showing off her teats through the fabric of her tunic, before snuggling into the covers again, grinning at his anguished expression. 

“Do that, non- _ser,_ I`ll just sleep some more dreaming of you,” she murmured blushingly, eyes glittering as she let them roam over his shoulders and arms, bloody leering at him again. Fuck, it felt ridiculously good being desired by her, trouble was that he reacted to it a bit too well, feeling himself start to harden as he met her gaze, seeing the faint blush in her cheeks. 

“You`ll need to tell me what those dreams of yours are all about one day,” he rasped as he reluctantly struggled to gather his cloak, weapons and boots in the annoyingly tiny thing they called a tent, sagged down with snow on top of being made for bloody dwarves. Like Tyrion fucking Lannister, wretched little bugger. But he had left Sansa alone, hadn`t he… No doubt about that after Sandor having had his finger up her warm, wet cunt. _Oh bugger me, bad idea thinking about that now…_

“I will, and then you can tell me how you got burned again,” she smiled at him. That sobered him up pretty damned quickly, but she _did_ need to know that the little wolf-bitch could still be alive, the hard little shit, and Sansa might not hate him to pieces for the whole mess either… he bloody hoped. _Fucking hell, she`ll probably kill me…_

He stroked her hair and bent to kiss her lips again, unable to stop himself as at least she didn`t hate him yet. Enjoying the sensation of her full mouth against his own, instantly creating swirls of arousal in him, the way she eagerly kissed him back heating him up, feeling his cock grow hard, his breathing changing. She smiled into the kiss, snaking her arms up around his neck, and dragged him down anew, chuckling when she felt how easily he yielded and his obvious arousal for her. Letting her tongue glide along his own, licking the unburnt side of his mouth, she had him panting with desire in an instant, unable to even pretend that he had any dignity left. 

Easy as that, Sandor found himself in a tight embrace, with a deliciously aroused Little Bird singing her sweet whimpers into his scarred mouth as he cupped her teats, her tunic in the way, but her nipples tight through the fabric. The way she moaned softly when he stroked his thumbs over them made him gasp in renewed astonishment at how incredibly arousing it was to please her. Her hands moved in under his arms in an embrace, dragging up his tunics to stroke tightly over the muscles of his back, sliding one hand forwards to caress his stomach and chest, sending heavy flashes of lust directly to his groin, driving him into pure need. When their hips started moving eagerly, his cock hard and wanting against her thigh, Sandor reflected that he had never felt so utterly in heaven and hell at the same time as with Sansa, like this. Because she was the best thing that had ever bloody happened to him, but he _would_ lose her one way or another, and then nothing would fucking matter anymore. He broke the kiss, breathing hard. And remembered that he was supposed to be taking the second watch right now. 

“Sansa, I need to go,” he almost groaned as she kissed his neck. “Jaime`s waiting to be relieved.” Sansa just reached down and started unlacing him, making him lose any interest in what Jaime bloody Lannister was doing or who the fuck he was waiting for. He dragged up her tunic instead, groaning quietly at the sight, and caressed her perfect teats, circling and stroking her nipples gently as she gaspingly shoved his thigh up between her legs and started moving her hips, whimpering into his neck, kissing him, licking him. A heavy wave of pleasure and lust smashed through him and left him dazedly unable to do anything but follow the intense need to be near her, for her hands on him, for her wet cunt. Sansa was breathing hard, too, dragging his tunics off him and moaning softly as she let her gaze roam over his body, kissing his collarbone and shoulder as she tugged open his breeches, flinging him into a raging arousal. She stroked tightly over his stomach again, pressing herself towards him and biting his neck gently, before looking boldly at his hard cock with an expression of desire on her face.

The need seemed to explode between them, and something desperate entered their touch. Kissing each other like there was no tomorrow, which bloody well could be true, as her hand stroked painfully slowly down his stomach, fingers tracing the line of the muscle leading directly down to his throbbing cock. He heard himself moan in anticipation as her fingers touched the hair there, her fingertips tentatively caressing the stem of him, making him buck his hips in agonizing want for more. Sansa broke their kiss and looked at what she was doing, having him gasping for breath at the thought of her gaze on his cock as well as her fingers. He pressed his face into her neck, trying to be quiet as she hesitantly folded her hand around his rock hard manhood, her delicate fingers surrounding him with obvious inexperience, but the tentative way she started moving her hand up and down his shaft nonetheless made him moan into her neck as intense pleasure vibrated through his whole body.

“Do you like it?” Sansa whispered to him, sounding so young and innocent that hard stabs of pleasure flew through him as he dazedly realized she probably hadn`t done this with anyone at all before. He lifted his head and looked at her, starting to fuck gently into her hand, and exhaling sharply at the added bliss. 

“It`s fucking heaven,” he groaned, making her tighten her hand around him, gaining confidence and stroking him harder, her other hand exploring the muscles of his stomach, tracing the stripe of hair up to his chest. He gasped raggedly at the sensation of her hands on him, both her rhythmic stroking of his cock and the way she slid her other hand tightly over his shoulder and upper arm, pleasure on her face as she touched him, before kissing him within an inch of his life. Sandor suddenly remembered that he was supposed to please her, too, and started moving his hands on her teats again, feeling her press her cunt down harder on his thigh at once, the way she pleased herself against him having him burning with need. He unlaced her breeches with shaking hands, making his Little Bird whimper so prettily into his mouth. Fucking hell, he was used to pushing up skirts, not unlacing other people’s breeches… but she looked so amazing in them that he didn`t even pull them all the way down, something about seeing her with her breeches half down her thighs and his hand touching her cunt working a bit too well for him. 

“Oh, Gods, you`re so fucking beautiful,” he gasped and felt the smile in her kiss as she changed the rhythm, stroking his cock a bit faster as she pressed herself against his fingers, making the most arousing little noise that shivered down his spine and directly to his member in her hand. They moaned together as he spread her wetness between her lips, his fingertips touching her nub lightly, his cock throbbing in pace with Sansa’s hand tight around him and his fingers pleasing her. She groaned softly and moved her hips up against his hand, begging for more, the way she breathed raggedly and whimpered having him panting uncontrollably, and the dazed thought of how amazing it felt to make her sing like that made pleasure spiral hotly through him as well. Sansa stroked his scarred cheek and turned his head gently to look at her face instead of her cunt, her beautiful blue eyes filled with pure desire for him, making him groan in arousal even before she reached down with her other hand, fingers caressing the head of his cock, sending him into a fucking frenzy.

“You`re wet, too,” she whispered, and he moaned helplessly as she spread his fluid with her fingertips, stroking him to a point where he nearly couldn`t concentrate on pleasing her in return, breathing hard as he held her gaze. He marvelled at the way her face looked, how her mouth opened in a gasp of pleasure when he gently slid a finger into her cunt again, shifting so his thumb caressed her nub. Feeling how _her_ wetness and warm tightness had him throbbing harder in need under her hand, rapidly pushing him towards the edge of his control. She seemed in agreement, panting and moving her hips hard against his hand, moaning in pleasure when he moved his finger slowly in and out of her, pinched her stiff nipple gently and put a second finger to her entrance, teasing her as he let his thumb flick faster over her nub. Her Tully-blue gaze was locked to his, her hand on his cock starting to stroke him in long tight strokes in pace with his hips, their pleasure as they desperately pressed themselves towards each other creating a strangely tender kind of intimacy in the middle of the intense need for release.

“Please… tell me how to please you more, I`m nearing,” she breathed, looking shy but flushed and aroused, her mouth slightly open as she breathed rapidly. _Let me fuck that pretty plump mouth of yours…_ He dazedly tried to find a reason for upbraiding himself for wanting Sansa Stark to please him with her mouth in a bloody tent with a blasted lion probably pacing around outside, Oh hell! Jaime! But the image of her lips sliding over the head of his cock was just too fucking arousing. 

“Just keep that amazing hand of yours tight around me,” he groaned, already feeling his muscles in the lower part of his stomach tightening, intense need prickling through his entire body in response to the amazing way she was fucking his hand in pace with him fucking hers, pressure building in his cock like a blissful hell as she stroked him hard and fast. He kissed her neck, licking her the way she had licked him, making her moan breathlessly and pressing her teat into his hand, the firm softness making even more pleasure flow to his cock. He squeezed it gently, moving his hand as he caressed her stiff little nipple, wondering how anyone could wind him up like this, and was rewarded by being kissed feverishly in return, his Little Bird gasping in pleasure as he gently slid his second finger into her slick wetness. His cock was already painfully hard, even with pleasure pulsing in him, when he suddenly felt her other hand gently on his balls, having him instantly moaning loudly at the sensation, and to his great surprise pushing Sansa into release. 

Her eyes widened and half closed before she arched, opening her mouth soundlessly, her cunt contradicting hard around his fingers as he continued moving them in and out of her, pinching her nipple harder at the same time, feeling how he started to go. Sansa ground herself against his thumb, and moaned so beautifully when she felt his cock pulse as he slammed into release after her, trying feverishly to keep his fingers away from her vulnerable maidenhead as they both lost control. Sandor groaned helplessly together with her as heavy waves of pure pleasure overwhelmed him, swiping his whole body into ecstasy. Using the last of his wits to bury his face in her neck as he spilled his seed over her thighs, needing the feeling of her hair, the silky strands brushing against him, to send him into a massive last pulsing peak of his release, pressing himself hard towards her, into her hand, moaning in agonized bliss.

“Oh fuck me, that was a nice way to make sure I`m awake!” he breathed into her neck. She chuckled low in her throat, chest heaving, and kissed his temple as she let go of his cock, trying to reach something to dry herself off with. He lay beside her trying to cool down as she adjusted their covers and embraced him, starting to stroke his back with her fingertips, giving him goose bumps and making him wonder how the hell it would have felt to have all this the rest of his life.

“Do you think it would be wise for me to… fuck you, Sandor?” she whispered back with a smile in her voice. _Bloody hells, yes!_ But then her voice turned serious, almost hesitant as she continued. “I`m sure you have realized the… difficulties surrounding my maidenhead. I really want to do it, but you haven`t said anything or asked me...” She looked at him, so beautiful and concerned that it was fucking painful.

“Little Bird, you don`t ask the fox if you should let the chickens loose…” he sighed hoarsely, stroking over her hips and arse, “and I don`t even know what the fuck I should say about that last part. It`s clear as hell you`ll either be married to the blasted Imp or stuffed into some great lord’s bed.” She didn`t answer, just looked at him, knowing this just as well as he did. 

His chest was suddenly too tight, he felt lost and pathetically distressed at how fucking hopeless it was to see her flying away from him, his anger flaring up to save him, seeing in her eyes how his face darkened. “Seven hells, Sansa, you choose if you`re going to fuck me or not! If I may be so buggering bold as to say so, _my lady,_ it`s not a lowborn dog’s place to have any fucking say about it! And if you`ll bloody excuse me, I`ll go do my blasted guard-duty now,” he snarled angrily as he laced himself up. Knowing there was no room for getting his tunics on inside the buggering handkerchief-sized tent they were trapped in, and having no idea how Sansa had managed to get them off him at all, really, he ended up meeting her hurt look with a hard one of his own as he grabbed weapons and clothes before pulling up the tent flap with a bit more force than strictly necessary and stamping his boots on out in the snow.

Jaime watched him approach through the snowdrift, and shook his head at Sandor’s bare upper body and the way he was trying to shrug on his under-tunic and carry the rest of his clothing and weapons at the same time. He just grabbed what Sandor had balled together and silently dealt him the next garment he would need as he dressed hurriedly, finally feeling the cold starting to creep into him as his flaring anger turned into simmering fury. 

The Lion regarded him with curiosity in his green eyes as Sandor buckled on his swordbelt, mood dark as the blackest of hells, already regretting the hurt look on Sansa’s face. Sandor was not an idiot after all, he understood perfectly well that she might not want to share blankets with him if she felt he`d acted like an arse. And then he would fucking lose her before he had to, but what in the seven buggering hells was a man supposed to do when his insides were bloody burning with all this shit? He tugged on his gloves and glowered sideways at the Lion, who had his mouth firmly shut and stood leaning up against a tree looking like he had all the time in the world to wait Sandor out.

“Go try to squeeze yourself in beside Brienne and get some sleep, for fuck’s sake!” he barked at the man. “You have until dark to rest, then we`re off. What else did you bloody well drag me away from warm blankets and a pretty woman for?” Jaime grinned widely and tilted his head against the trunk.

“Clegane, that was half an hour ago! And now you fucking cartwheel out of the tent looking like murder, half naked as usual now-a-days, not even swearing at me for helping you dress. I don`t think it`s wise to let you guard anything alone right now, lest you manage to drink yourself to the ground on fermented pinesap or something,” the cheeky bastard had the nerve to fling at him. Sandor felt red-hot rage well up, screaming to be let loose, and went for the man without giving it a second thought. Meeting steel halfway through the movement as Jaime’s dagger pressed up under his chin. 

“Really, Clegane? Do you think I love being throttled by you so much? Try to remember that I`m no fucking squire in ill-fitting livery,” he hissed at Sandor, and shoved _him_ up against the tree. “This is me being your friend, you stupid halfwit! I don`t need to be a maester to see you`re on your knees for the woman. So calm the fuck down and let me give you some advice!” the Lion finished before letting him go.

Sandor stood seething and glaring at Jaime, receiving a steely look in return, the man tense and obviously waiting for Sandor to erupt once more and ready for anything if he did. He opened his mouth to string the fucker up in enough curses to make a ladder direct to the deepest off the seven hells, but instead something incredible fell out from between his lips.

“What fucking advice?” They looked equally surprised at each other, before Jaime grinned from ear to ear, relaxing visibly as he started flipping his dagger with his remaining hand. 

“Clegane! Congratulations, you actually have a beating heart in there! I was beginning to believe that the reason you seemed impossible to take down was sheer lack of a pulse!” he said, giving him a sideway glance before laughing out loud. Despite everything Sandor felt himself grin ruefully.

“Fuck off, Lion!” he grumbled, trying to get a grip and return to seething, but in some absolutely absurd way it felt good that the insufferable shit seemed pleased by the whole bloody mess. 

“I`ll be damned! Right, firstly, as she`s my charge too… is she…?” Jaime gave him a searching look.

“Yes,” Sandor answered, breaking off a small branch and cutting its ends off in need of something to occupy his hands. 

“My brother’s wife, then?” the bastard continued, raising his eyebrows and making Sandor shoot him a hard glance.

“No,” he rasped curtly, letting his knife slide down one side of the wood.

“Ah well, but I take it she`s quite contented… by the sound of it?” the Lion grinned at him, flipping his dagger higher.

“I should fucking hope so,” Sandor replied, suddenly feeling annoyed by the flipping beside him, snatching the dagger out of the air and throwing it into the broad trunk of the tree beside him, leaving it quivering. Jaime didn`t look fazed in the slightest, instead widening his grin at Sandor.

“Didn`t know you had it in you, Clegane! How gallant!” Jaime managed before obviously breaking down in laughter at the mere thought of a gallant Clegane, the worst part being he undoubtedly had a point. Sandor felt himself grin ruefully despite his every intention, watching strips of rough bark curl as his knife freed it from the yellowish white stem within.

“Go bugger yourself, you mewling piece of shit! What about yours? Still a maid after half a night in the hayloft with you?” he asked back, courteous as hell, Sansa would`ve been fucking joyous.

“Not so contended, but on her way,” Jaime grinned, obviously immensely satisfied with his progress with the big wench. Sandor snorted.

“That`s the trouble with only having one hand, Lion,” he replied, showing his teeth, making the overly-tired man chuckle, of all insane things.

“No, that`s the trouble with having a maid that can beat you bloody if you don`t behave, Clegane, and I consider myself the lucky one of the two of us!” he looked as cheeky as only Jaime could, but an edge in his tone made Sandor’s mood drop again as he flung the wood in his hand away.

“What the hell were you going to advise me on then?” he rasped grumpily, feeling an utter idiot for being the one bringing it up again.

“Advice, yes. Are you done trying to kill me for the day?” Jaime asked, sobering up. Sandor gave the Lion a somewhat reluctant nod, immediately regretting throwing his distraction away. “Right, how wonderful. Clegane, to be blunt, both you and I know your face and reputation are not usually something to make the maids fall down on you with their legs spread. What`s worrying me is that I think that this maid is quite taken with you. I`ve done my part to shovel Brienne out of the way as the both of you obviously want some privacy, but Sansa gives me an unnerving feeling that she knows what she`s doing, that she has a plan with this. She`s a bit too intelligent to waste valuable pieces in the game of thrones, but I think we both know it`s only a matter of time before you`re fucking her whenever I`m gone for a piss, telling Brienne you saw a unicorn in _that_ direction. Trouble is, I think you are as clueless as I am about what her plans are, which puts you in quite a bad position, one that’s likely to end with your scarred head on a spike if you`re not careful. Might be an improvement, of course, but…” The git looked as arrogant as ever, but there was real compassion in his eyes.

Sandor felt the burnt side of his mouth twist into a mocking grin. “You`re worrying over me, put up against a high-born maid with a lot more than her maidenhead to lose? You`re fucking shitting me!” _She`s taken with me?_

Jaime grinned back pleasantly. “Yes, a brutish sod like you would have trouble understanding such a complicated matter, but I actually think she has the upper hand in this. Let`s make it plainer, shall we? _You_ are in a constant state of undress. _She_ has still got her maidenhead. You`re on your back here, dog.”

He was fucking right, Sandor mused as he stared hard at the bugger. But he had given her that control. _No, she had that all along, I wouldn`t have raped her._ All he had done was give up some of his own. But the thought that she had plans he didn`t know about was bloody unnerving. After all, guarding the heir to the throne was all about sniffing out people’s hidden purposes, and he`d been bloody great at that. But with Sansa, he`d just assumed she needed time to be comfortable with him, her passionate exploring a kind of bliss all on its own, her harsh reality a choice between who she would be the wife of, with or without benefits. And Sandor’s harsh reality was that Sansa would never be _his_ wife, so he would lose even if she did let him fuck her… The only thing he was sure of in the whole situation was that he would never force himself on her. 

Feeling how his glare turned into a frown, the burnt side of his mouth twitching slightly, he grudgingly looked at the Lion.

“What? Do you think she`s turning into a new Cersei?” he grumbled, feeling exposed. Jaime looked pained, before shaking it all off, looking every inch the high-born fucking noble he was, if it wasn`t for the rueful grin.

“No, Clegane, I don`t. The only way Sansa reminds me of my sister is her sharp mind, the steel in her spine and the fact that they both have more guts than most men. But there all likeness ends. Seven hells, man! She`s bedding you! Cersei looked at me in disgust just because I wasn`t her mirror anymore, my stump had her shuddering in revulsion. Oh fuck, before I make an ass of myself here, she didn`t fuck you too, by the way?” 

Sandor shook his head, actually feeling bad for the arrogant sod, as he suddenly had a vision of Sansa fucking every guard on sight, releasing hot stabs of jealousy and rage in his stomach.

“No,” he rasped, “but she was pretty damned good at making a man know what he was missing.” Jaime looked like he was struggling inwardly with the direction his fury should take, before ending up laughing bitterly.

“Right. Well, back to the lady at hand. Go and talk to her. Show her you`re no fool, and then see if she chooses to be honest. If she is, then she probably has you braided into those plans in a good way, and you`ll just have to deal with that. If she lies to you, then get the fuck out of her blankets and go back to being an ordinary guard, knuckle your forehead and keep your distance. I`ll actually do my job this time and guard her properly if you need to drink yourself to the floor to forget her on your days off. We`ll deliver her to her bannermen a maiden fair, and you can drink yourself blind as you fuck red-haired whores or go soberly into Sansa’s service if that`s your wish. That`s my advice, trying to be your friend whether you want it or not.” The Lion locked his gaze to Sandor’s as if he needed to see his words sink in, then dipped his head at him and left for Brienne’s tent, cloak streaming out behind him in the wind and snow.

Sandor felt a bit dazed by it all, standing in the swirling snow, watching the forest below him. _What in the Stranger’s name are you up to, Little Bird?_ It suddenly felt like ages had passed since the frightened, pretty little girl with her auburn hair shining silkily in the torchlight had walked on his left side, away from his scarring, through the hallways of the Red Keep. Never looking directly at him unless he forced her. A lifetime. Had Littlefinger managed to turn her into a clever little mockingbird? Had Sandor lost his fucking instincts? Jaime _could_ be better than him at picking out the finer scents of female manipulation perhaps, having lived a bit too close to the queen of fucking ambition. But Sandor was too buggering experienced to be easily fooled, somehow feeling sure he would have picked up the spiky smell of scheming being so close to Sansa. _Or maybe that`s the bloody problem, my brain`s turning to shit around her..._

He sat down on a stone Jaime obviously had used before him, regretting the need for avoiding a fire, the smoke and smell too easy to pick out for their blasted pursuers if they stumbled this way. Sandor watched and thought, listening for faint noises not natural in a forest, feeling his cloak getting covered in a layer of snow and cold seeping into his feet, his arse numb. He`d had so many watches in his life, standing guard for what felt like a fucking third of it, and knew how to divide his attention without losing focus. It was a kind of two layered state where half his mind was in complete alert, raising the other part at the slightest of unusual signs, a strange triggering imprinted through surviving a life as a soldier and a childhood with Gregor. Giving room for thought and distraction from a body that bloody screamed for movement, numb feet, aching back, something itching. It didn`t matter, what was important was the ability to react before something happened, moving on an instinct rooted deep in his bones. That was what made an experienced guard such a valuable thing. Losing some of that instinct would be like losing a fucking limb.

He heard the rustle from the tent a long time before Sansa appeared, knew she approached through the muffling snow without looking, felt her presence in his scarred soul as a punch to his ruined face. She stopped in front of him, cloak hanging open at the front, and he let his gaze roam over her from her boots in the snow up her well turned calves and thighs, admiring the curve of her hips narrowing in to her waist, traveling up to her fucking delicious teats before snapping up to meet her eyes. 

She looked at him with worry and something else in her eyes, reaching out for him silently, making him want to rage at her when he couldn`t make himself snarl and snatch her hand away as she stroked his hair away from his ugly face. “What the fuck do you want with me, Sansa?” he rasped, meaning it both ways, feeling defeated and angry at the same time, looking into her eyes trying to find the traces of manipulation, the faint imprint of Petyr Baelish. All he could see was Tully-blue concern.

“To talk,” she answered quietly. _Did you fucking hear us?_ He just looked at her, waiting for what the hell she had to say. She smiled sadly at him and kept her distance, making his insides drop with the sudden realization that he`d wanted her to come closer. “What do you want in life, Sandor?” _You._ He regarded her through his most impassive expression, not knowing what to say out loud. 

“Fuck, fight and drink, I suppose,” he finally grumbled at her. She gave him an exasperated glance, rapidly turning into anger. 

“Is that all you want?” she asked him tersely. _No._

“What`s more to want out of this buggering life, Little Bird?” he rasped back at her, showing her his teeth. She actually sent him a glance of contempt, the first he`d ever received from her. It stung.

“You have quite a nerve to call me Little Bird while chirping your inane soldier’s phrases back at me, don`t you?” she said scathingly.

“What? It`s not…! I don`t call you Little Bird because you chirp anymore!” he snarled back, getting to his feet so that he towered over her. She just arched her neck and looked fearlessly up at him. His rising anger exploded into rage, grabbing her upper arms and lowering his face close to hers. “What the hell do you want with me, _Little Bird?”_ he repeated at her, voice a savage growl. Her eyes were locked to his, so brilliantly blue and holding their own steel now.

“To know why you keep calling me Little Bird, then,” she said through gritted teeth, making something shift in him, adding a soreness to his rage that instantly pushed him into not giving a shit, slamming into opposition to all the contradicting feelings in him.

“Because it`s a fucking pet name, what in the seven hells did you think it was?” he rasped like steel sliding over stone. She bared her teeth in a smile and stepped closer, eyes glittering up at him in fury.

“And why would you need a pet name for me when all you want is to… to fight, drink and fuck? Do you give your _whores_ pet names as well?” she sneered at him. Sandor felt the burnt side of his mouth twitch and twitch again, the chaotic roar of all he felt for her screaming inside him. 

“No,” he rasped hoarsely, lips nearly brushing her lush mouth, sparks of lust swirling into his anger and longing. 

“So you want something more out of life, then,” she whispered, not quite into his mouth, but so hellishly near that he couldn`t even make himself answer something horrible to shut her up.

“What do _you_ want, Little Bird? Sansa?” he asked instead. She smiled, brushing her lips against his own without kissing him.

“You. And Winterfell. And life.” He heard how his breath caught and felt himself fall, kissing her, releasing her arms to put his own around her, feeling how she kissed him back, her arms going around his neck, holding him tight. How had he ever fucking survived life without this? Losing her would buggering break him to pieces… Before he could stop himself, he`d started to speak hoarsely into her mouth as he continued to kiss her between words, his arms pressing her towards him, needing her all too much.

“Then for fuck’s sake, Sansa… explain to me why you want me in your bed, asking me if it`s bloody _wise_ to either fuck you into being Tyrion’s wife, or _not_ fuck you into being a high lord’s symbol of status. Tell me your pretty little plans in a life that has no fucking room for me except as a sword. What in the seven hells _do_ you want with me? I would have been your sword without bloody moaning in pleasure into your neck. Just point and I`ll help you take Winterfell or guard your back, do my duty. Little Bird… please convince me that you`re different than Cersei in dazing men to their knees just to gain something.” Sandor heard the bitterness and despair in his own voice, and tried desperately to keep his temper in check as he really needed her to answer him truthfully. 

Sansa’s lips left his as she leant back and looked searchingly at him, stroking his neck, making him feel so utterly vulnerable that he felt like drawing steel. 

“You heard my plans in the crypt. As for being someone’s wife… I tried to ask your advice, your opinion because you are part of my life, but you left in anger. And do you really think I`ve dazed you to _gain something?_ Do you compare me to Cersei in manipulating _men?_ How many _men_ do you think I`ve shared my blankets with?” the fury was building in her voice until she more or less spat the last words at him. 

“I don`t know,” he rasped, trying not to sound jealous as hell, before suddenly remembering her small, inexperienced hand on his cock back in the tent. 

“Only you, you… stupid dog! And not from trying to _gain_ anything!” she flung at him furiously once more. Sandor didn`t know if he should feel relieved or be angry back, but she continued like an avalanche. “You, on the other hand, have quite obviously fucked _everything_ that moves, so don`t you dare think lowly of me!” She was bloody fuming at him, hands balled into fists at her sides. _She`s fucking jealous! Of whores!_ He started laughing before he could control himself, and grinningly tightened his arms around her, ignoring her protests as he sat back on the stone again, dragging the highly offended bird with her ruffled feathers into his lap. 

“Can`t blame a grown man for having fucked before, Little Bird. But to pass your own words back to you, no one could bloody compare to you and no one but you has received pet names from me. Does that satisfy you?” he rasped into her hair, feeling a fool for telling her such things, and buggering great for the need of it. She turned her head and looked at him, expression softening. “But regardless of whether you want to admit it or not, you are either using me to gain a husband or leading me around by my cock without having any intention of fucking me. I`m fucked anyway, ironically enough.” He stared deep down in her beautiful eyes. “I don`t like being manipulated, Sansa, so cough up a reasonable explanation for it not being true.”

She met his gaze unflinchingly before wrapping his cloak over her, too, folding her arms around him and snuggling close to him beneath it. “I`m the last Stark. Petyr scoured the seven kingdoms for even the faintest whispers of my siblings before setting his plans for me into action. I need to be the Stark in Winterfell, I need to reclaim it and restore it, just as I said, and I need Lannister blood money to do it,” she said in a low voice. 

“I need my bannermen, the river lords, the great lords of the Vale, their love and their swords. I need to take care of the surviving smallfolk of the north, find out if Jon`s still alive, and keep the Lannisters in King’s Landing away from my neck until my seat is secure, my motive to rule the north peacefully clear to the world. If they want to continue their war, they`ll need to come for me, and find as Stannis did what a good way it is to lose a third of your army to winter. I don`t think they will, though, based on what Jaime said. So my main concern is to handle the fragile political situation in Westeros to gain the best alliances possible for the north. For that, a natural solution would be a strong political marriage.” 

Sandor felt his heart sink. Her hands were caressing his back, as if she was comforting him, before she continued. “But I`m already married, I won`t be sold again. I have more education in rulership and building a strong economy than any of the lords powerful enough to be worthy of my hand. As none of Petyr’s eyes and ears have found so much as a trace of Tyrion, he seems to have gone up in smoke in the black cells, I want to continue being married to him.” 

Her eyes were drowning him, her hands sliding up his chest and around his neck, stroking him soothingly, looking sweetly hesitant, blushing for all her worth. “But I want _you_ by my side, Sandor. And in my bed.” 

He felt dizzy, the long and heavy explanation up against a bloody truculent bastard like himself.

“Why?” he rasped hoarsely, unable to look away from her suddenly shy gaze. 

“Because I know I can trust you. You`re the only person who has ever wanted me instead of my titles and looks since King’s Landing. You`re intelligent and loyal, brutally honest and have your own strange honour. You`ve defended me to the best of your abilities, you`re plain out impressive with or without your sword, and tend to scare the living daylights out of anyone who offends me.” She grinned at him, managing to look the blushing, shy maid and mischievous as hell at the same time. “Besides, I have so many unladylike thoughts about you that I need to do something about them or be ruined as a ruler.” He chuckled at her boldness, feeling himself stir, and at the same time like he`d fucking fought down an army singlehanded. 

Taking a deep breath he held her tight before getting to his feet, putting her gently to the ground, and kicked himself into motion as he knew there would be a fair chance of her telling him to bugger the hell off after what he was about to tell her in return. Feeling the injustice of it all, because even if he _hadn`t_ treated the little wolf-bitch anywhere near as horribly as he could have, he still knew from experience that highborn nobles were annoyingly touchy about their family. 

Look at Tywin bloody Lannister, setting his Impish little shit of a son in command in King’s Landing, just because he had Tywin’s blood in his veins, when everyone sworn to Casterly Rock knew the man despised the little bugger. Even that business with the whore-bride had gone Tyrion’s way, the little slut being fucked to pieces just for being a _whore?_ It was fucking insane! How in the seven hells did _tha_ t punish the ugly bastard for marrying her as Tywin obviously wanted? The girl had paid dearly for something she probably had been lured into in the first place, too young to understand the bear-trap she was in before it was too late. The worst part being that at the end the Imp had even fucked her himself. How Tyrion could manage to get his cock up after quietly watching half the men of Casterly Rock fuck her first, until she was bruised and bloodied and not longer able to stand, Sandor could not understand for the life of him. But his own disgust at the dwarf had only deepened when the little shit paid the girl twice as much as any other man for his own Lannister worth, so bloody arrogant and useless that it fucking hurt looking at him. _And I`m supposed to be less than the halfman, bloody hells, the nerve of him!_ All that shit so Tywin could preserve the Lannisters’ family honour. Bloody highborn bastards the lot of them… 

Of course, Sandor knew Sansa was no Lannister in anything but name, in the end. _Bugger me, that`s going to be painful._ But he`d seen her taking so much shit for her family, her chirping so icily consistent in trying to conceal her loyalties, being beaten for every misstep, for her brother’s actions, never breaking even as a girl. And now she stood here, a Stark if ever there was one, with steel for her spine and Winterfell in her heart. He was darkly certain that him roughly abducting her little sister, thinking to profit from her at all, would not give him any credit in that trust-book of hers. 

Sansa obviously saw something in his face, because her eyes narrowed as she stood looking up at him, blue eyes scrutinizing his corrupted soul. “What`s the matter?” she said. _Bugger me, here we go…_ He glanced down at the forest below them again, seeing no movement, no flight of birds, finding it calm enough to get the horses fed.

“Come, we need to move the horses, I`ll tell you as we work,” he grumbled, feeling shitty because she would most likely rip his head off, and irritated because he knew he`d treated the little wolf-bitch as good as it got on the road like that, but confusingly enough beginning to feel slightly in the wrong about snatching her in the first place. And _that_ didn`t make telling his Little Bird about it any easier.

“I have my doubts about you being the last Stark,” he rasped, feeling how his gaze hardened and the burnt side of his mouth started to twitch slightly, steeling himself for the hell he was increasingly sure he would have to pay. He glanced sideways at her and she looked him straight in the eye, somehow making him think she was holding her breath and waiting to be disappointed in one go. So he just let it loose. 

“I got burned again when fighting Beric Dondarrion in a trial by combat, for that bloody pack of Brotherhood without Banners, based on your sister’s fucking furious testimony of me murdering her precious butcher-boy. Which I did, no doubt about that, but on the queen’s direct order.” 

Sansa looked at him with a mixture of pain, wonderment and disbelief, provoking him no end as he wouldn`t fucking lie about this shit, would he? He bloody knew this would end in disaster and trudged on regardless, feeling anger starting to creep into him as he loosened Stranger’s tether, checking he`d eaten all his hay, even the fragments.

“I killed Dondarrion, bugger the self-righteous bastard through all seven hells, but he was fucking brought to life again by bloody Thoros of Myr. Seven hells, I`ve never heard a _less_ fitting name than the Brave Companions, peasants shitting themselves the moment they meet anyone with _real_ balls, even with a fire-loving son of a bitch to kiss them alive again. Bastards let me go as I had been declared innocent by their God. My skills more like it! And with a massive hangover at that. But they stole my tourney-winnings and I needed gold to survive, didn`t I? So I ended up snatching your wild little wolf-bitch sister from them in return, fucking carrying her fuming through the riverlands, while she tried to kill me thrice a day, for fuck’s sake.” He actually grinned at that. _The little shit had spirit at least._

Sansa just met his gaze blankly, making his heart sink like a stone in a well, fanning his simmering anger into a blaze as they led Stranger and Guardian over to a cluster of rowan trees. The mounts started to scrape the snow away from the ground beneath the trees, to eat brittle brown winter-grass and blueberry heath, soon beginning to strip the bark off and eating twigs with depressingly small shoots. Sandor glowered angrily at the icy lady on the other side of the horses’ snow-and-blanket-covered backs, wondering if he would have bloody frozen if he`d tried to kiss her right now, before doggedly continuing trying to be _nice_ for fuck’s sake, telling her what he knew about her sister. 

“I meant to ransom her to your lady mother, tracking her and the Young Wolf down to a certain bloody wedding. I saved your sister’s scrawny neck when she decided to run in to all the seven hells at once, armed with her fucking eating knife. Hadn`t even the grace to thank me for it when she woke up, complaining about her sore head, furious that I didn`t just let her kill herself,” he rasped, feeling that if all else would condemn him in Sansa’s eyes, at least that bordered on decency. But his Little Bird just stood utterly still on the other side of Guardian, back straight and head high like he was a fucking servant in a great hall full of nobles she didn`t trust. 

“She… _Arya_ complained about you saving her from the Freys because her head hurt, _when she woke up?_ ” she said in a crystal clear voice, arching her eyebrow at him. Sandor felt like she`d slapped him, his mouth twitching into a snarl.

“Yes she bloody did, but you might have thought it a better idea to hit her with the edge of the axe instead of the flat of it?” he growled, walking back for Honour and Daisy. Sansa’s eyes blazed furiously in that blank cold mask she`d drawn over her face, still looking like she was wearing fucking silks at court.

“You hit my sister with an axe?” she chimed at him, being the daughter of fucking winter for all her worth, the snow in her hair completing the image all too well.

“I hit her over the head with the flat of an axe so she wouldn`t lose it completely, what the hell is wrong with that?” Sandor growled, starting to feel bloody offended as well. “And then I went for the Vale and that fucking aunt of yours, but the blasted peasants told me the mountain passes were snowed shut, not bothering to mention that the eastern passes were still open. Ended up working and drinking until we were bloody told to leave, and I didn`t know what the fuck I should do with the snarling cub I had gnawing at my heels, because the wolves were smashed to pieces, your family all dead.” 

He heard how he was starting to plead with her despite the anger churning in him, making him despise himself for the fucking weakness he had for her, his surprising need for her approval. But she only blinked at him, silently, and turned her face away from him as they moved the last two mounts to another cluster of rowans, making Sandor want to hit something in frustration. He ended up telling the last part of what suddenly felt like a fucking confession through gritted teeth.

“In the end we met my brother’s men at an inn. I was told about you being married to Tyrion, and kind of… lost it. Throwing down too much wine too fast on too empty a stomach. Got drunk, ended up in a fight that worked out well enough for us, though I had to drag your fierce little sister bloody and screaming off the corpse of the Tickler before hitting the woods. Only problem was the wound to my thigh. I lost too much blood and it got infected like hell, and I ended up falling off Stranger to fucking die beneath a tree.” Sandor felt how the burnt side of his mouth twitched into a snarl again, not caring what he looked like as long as Sansa wore her fucking ice-mask, like he was blasted Joffrey or something. Like she was being beaten by him. 

“The Wolf-bitch hadn`t even the courtesy to give me the gift of mercy. Even if I… told her shit about you I shouldn`t have, I suppose. I was trying to provoke her into stabbing me, but she wouldn`t, and the last I saw of her was her mount’s arse when they thundered towards Saltpans. And then Elder Brother came along and I ended up in a bloody dress.” He heard the angry bitterness in his own hoarse voice as he shoved the layer of snow off the horses’ blankets, feeling a proper mess and studying her closely, waiting for some sort of reaction, but she just looked blankly back. Silently.

“If you don`t bloody believe me, then fuck off to your tent and get some sleep, _my lady,_ and ask me nicely to go to hell. I`ll be a good dog and obey, don`t you worry about that! But I didn`t kill her or hurt her, unless you call a bump on the head hurting when it was bloody saving her life. And I don`t think anyone else would have been able to, either, Saltpans or not, given she`s the fiercest pain in the arse any man would ever want to run away from,” he snarled at her, feeling despair snake thickly into his anger, mixing into a deep, hollow longing for wine, strong and red, to fill the emptiness of the place Sansa had left within him when she retreated into her cold shell. 

But then she sighed, and something shifted in her eyes, tears welling up as she gave him a shadow of a smile, releasing so much relief in him that he felt struck between his eyes, instantly wanting to hit his head against a wall for being relieved when she cried, or feeling relieved at all. Seven hells, she was messing up his head. He walked over to her, feeling at a complete loss, and hesitantly stroked the tears off her cheeks, not knowing how the hell he was supposed to act right now. She sobbed and leaned against him, burying her face in his coat, so he put his arms around her and held her to him, wondering how in the Stranger’s name he was still allowed to do that, waiting for her to speak. _Women are fucking insane creatures…_ She took a deep breath and raised her head, looking him deep in the eyes.

“You`re a real bag of… shit sometimes, do you know that?” she said in a shaking voice. He grinned at her, bloody soaring inside, that she spoke to him like she was a human being instead of a fucking lump of ice. 

“I`ve been told a couple of hundred times,” he rasped, not being able to wipe the grin off his face and tightened his arms around her instead of kissing her bloody senseless. She snorted at him, tears still running down her cheeks, so he picked her up and carried her back to the stone, his gaze gliding over the scenery out of habit.

“You deserved it no doubt, Sandor… You should have told me this ten days ago, or better, in the crypt. Do you have any more dark secrets I need to know about? Have you raped my mother or killed someone dear to me as well?” she asked, drying her tears without stopping the flow. Sandor’s grin slid off his face.

“I took down a good part of your household guard when your father was taken, don`t know if you held them dear, though,” he rasped, receiving an exasperated glance from Sansa, as she sat sniffling in his lap. 

“Don`t ask if you don`t want the answer,” she murmured, looking pained. “No one can blame you for not being honest, at least. But you haven`t raped my mother then, I take it?”

“No,” he said, and barked a laugh at the absurd feeling of pride at not quite having sunk to that level yet. She laughed at him and shook her head, still crying, but smiling sadly at him through her tears, arranging herself in his lap.

“So if I understand you correctly you stole my sister from a knight sent to the riverlands by my father, manhandled her back and forth to get her ransomed, hit her with _the flat side_ of an axe, drank yourself into stupors around her, and ended up dying under a tree because she finally stuck two fingers up to you, refusing to kill you after trying to do just that, thrice a day, during your entire journey together?” Sansa pierced him with her Tully-blue gaze. “What in the Gods’ names did you tell her about me to make her _not_ give you death? I know my sister: if she has reached the level of being dragged screaming from corpses, she would have ripped your heart out for her butcher-boy, believe me she _hated_ you for that.” 

Sandor felt fucking awkward. “I`m used to being hated, doesn`t bother me much… I might have told her… I was trying to make her kill me, for fuck’s sake. So I told her I should have raped you bloody instead of leaving you for the Imp… might have rambled about other things as well, watching you beaten and stuff, but I was bloody half dead with fever and pain, and all I wanted was to get out from this blasted hell of a life,” he said, not quite breaking ranks under her scrutinizing gaze, but feeling like shit nonetheless. Sansa sighed again, deeply, looking like she would like to beat some sense into him with a stick.

“No wonder she left you for the crows,” she said. “You`re as well bred and well behaved as a wildling. I`m actually surprised you two didn`t get along better after you paid in burns for her friend. You`re the same type if not the same breed, after all.” She`d finally stopped crying and started fiddling with the fastenings of his cloak. “I`m glad you told me… all of it. And you think she may have survived Saltpans? It would have been wonderful to see her again,” she said and her tears flowed freely again, making Sandor feel useless as dung in rain, having no idea how to comfort her. 

She must have seen his inner struggle, and laughed bloody _fondly_ at the expression on his face, stroking his mismatched cheeks as if she was comforting _him._ “So you lost it when you heard I`d been married, did you? Getting yourself nearly killed?” she murmured and kissed him softly, her hand stroking the heavy scarring on his thigh through the fabric of his breeches. _So you know where all my scars are…_ He kissed her back, just their lips moving, somehow making it more intimate without tongues and flaring arousal in the way, something else resonating between them. 

“I think we`re both scarred by life Sandor,” she whispered against his lips. “You wouldn`t believe what you`ve just provoked in me with the mention of my family, my sister, _that time_ again like that. I think we`ll need to slowly talk each other through that period of our lives, because I`m not letting you retreat just because you`ve a blacker past than most. You don`t need to feed your burning anger just because you are frightened of me knowing your sins, I have my dark secrets as well, you know.” And what the fuck was a seasoned soldier supposed to say to that? Sansa leaned her head against his chest, pulling her feet up and snuggling into his arms, arranging their cloaks around them. 

She yawned as she turned her head up to him again. “Thank you for trying to take care of my savage little sister. You could just have slit her throat when her worth as a hostage died with my family, as you could have raped me bloody and slit _my_ throat that night. I`m half tempted to think you`ve been turning into a good man for a while now, but I`m sure you would be awfully offended if I did.” Her tone was dead serious, nearly courteous, but her blue eyes held mirth, laughing silently at him. 

“Shut the fuck up, Little Bird, or I`ll tell you stories that will have you screaming to get away from me,” he rasped warningly back at her. 

She just raised her head and kissed him on his scarred mouth. “I think you should shut up. When counting lives lost as a result of our actions, you`re a brat compared to me,” she whispered into his mouth with a foggy dark sincerity to her voice that he felt deep down in his gut. He looked surprised at his Little Bird, and she met his gaze unyielding, making him see the great lady she would be, the small innocent child she had once been and the beautiful young woman she was already. 

Not knowing why he took her on her word, he just nodded, a quiet token of respect from one kind of warrior to another, as long shadows stretched over blue snow once more, the forest quiet and their tracks erased by muffling, soothing snow, covering up the deep scars left by the war of the five kings.


	21. Moonlit forest and pillow-talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 21 and 22 were written as one. I`ll update soon ;-) And reviews are always welcome :-)

Sansa was woken by Sandor’s gentle shake, her body pleasantly warm and her feet like ice. Trying to swim through the sleepy fog surrounding her brain, she yawned and snuggled closer to him, incredibly enough feeling like she wasn`t close _enough_ even sleeping in his lap with her face pressed to his chest. Sansa couldn`t remember falling asleep, but blinking at the dark sky from inside Sandor’s cloak, seeing the mist from her breath mix with the snowflakes falling into view, she reflected that she must have slept at least an hour. And that Sandor had apparently kept her wrapped up in both their cloaks and held her tight the entire time.

“Little Bird, wake up. I need to go shake some life into the Lion and Brienne,” he murmured hoarsely down at her. She stretched her arms around him and hugged him hard towards her, feeling strangely lightheaded at the thought that she could squeeze him with all her might and she wouldn`t even manage to restrict his breathing. He`d probably laugh at her for trying, though. She smiled as she raised herself out of her warm den inside his cloak and stretched stiff limbs, wriggling her toes in her boots.

“Good evening,” she smiled at Sandor as she repositioned herself in his lap, not quite ready to let him go just yet. “Nice quiet watch? I`m sorry for falling asleep, I should have stayed up with you.”

“Nicest watch I`ve ever had, with your warm body up against me,” he rasped and stroked hair out of her eyes, making her think of how it had always surprised her how gentle he could be when he chose it, even being such a large man, meeting his grey gaze and feeling herself be blown away by the whirlwind of emotions he unleashed in her.

Sandor regarded her quietly from inside his hood for a moment, something warm in his hard eyes that was reserved just for her. Making her heart beat faster in her chest, her breathing suddenly feeling strange and something seemed to be slightly wrong with her vision. She found him so intensely attractive not only _despite_ his scars anymore, more that they completed him, in the strangest of ways making him roughly handsome to her with his black hair falling into his grey eyes, the twisted scar-tissue of his right side just making him exciting, his mouth twisting into a wry half-grin as if he knew she sat there measuring him up.

She didn`t even care that no one else would agree with her, remembering well her earlier fear of his appearance. Yes, he was plain fearsome, large, violent and dangerous. His heavily muscled body and coarse language did not invite anyone to either underestimate him or think him compassionate in any way. And rightly so, his reputation had not come without reason. But here she sat in his lap, still a maid after sharing so much pleasure with him, the hands capable of such violence stroking her back and his brutality used to protect her. And with a fascinating gleam of warmth radiating at her through his eyes… _He has all these layers, shields… anger, but he does love me… in his own strange way…_

It was like getting the most wonderful gift – and not being allowed to say thank you. Because she suspected he would not handle it well if she pressed the matter. Sandor didn`t push her for her maidenhead, and she would not push him for the exclamation of love. They would come in due time, both things. Sansa reached out and stroked her fingertips gently beside the stitches on his forehead, checking that the wound looked like it was healing well, despite the lack of attention without wine to clean it. Sandor didn`t even flinch, just glanced at her mouth as if he wanted to kiss her. Sansa smiled at him and leant forwards, waiting for his kiss, watching how his wry half-grin turned into a truly rueful one. He closed in on her and kissed her slowly, his arms tightening around her as he moved his lips firmly over hers. She kissed him back as tenderly and lovingly as she could, stroking a hand over his good cheek, feeling the stubble, and continued down his neck, letting her hand slide around it into his hood and scraping her fingernails over his skin as she combed her fingers into his hair.

He grinned into their kiss and let his tongue slide against hers, deepening it as they enjoyed the closeness and comfort of each other. Knowing they would have to keep up their pretence as soon as Jaime and Brienne were around. _Why, actually? Jaime must surely know by now?_ She felt how they both started sliding into arousal, something hungry entering their kiss. The way he turned her towards him, moving her leg over so she straddled him, completely undermining every intention of keeping it light as she rolled her hips in sudden need, feeling how he hardened against her. Sandor breathed fast and started kissing her neck, his hands moving up her body as he pressed her towards him, making Sansa hear how small noises of pure lust escaped her lips as she loved the way he made her ache for him.

But then he froze. Listening for a heartbeat before getting to his feet, putting her down to the ground just in time for Brienne’s arrival out of the furthest tent, followed by Jaime who threw out their saddlebags and looked tired but ready for anything.

“So I _am_ taking full night-watch the next time we make camp,” Brienne said as she turned towards Jaime, sounding stubborn. “I won`t be cheated for guard-duty just because you want company in the tent and…” She turned and saw Sansa watching, and trailed off what she was about to say.

Brienne smiled shyly at her, obviously feeling uncomfortable with Sansa hearing the little she`d said and the fact that she`d shared a tent with Jaime at all, the sheer translucency of the situation it put them all in obviously embarrassing her. Sansa realized with a pang that the Maid of Tarth had probably had heard her moaning as she released with Sandor Clegane’s fingers up her… womanhood… damn. This required pillow-talk if ever a situation did.

Sandor went into motion, and together the four of them pulled down the camp in no time at all. Sansa found herself staring at him whenever possible, finding everything he did intoxicating. From the fast and routine way he packed down their tent, his powerful shoulders looking so incredible when he used his arms, the way his hair flew black and straight in the wind, to the way he moved purposefully, comfortably in his soldier’s way of packing up, hitting the road. Or woods. _How could I possibly be getting_ worse _when it comes to him?_

But understand it or not, Sansa found herself enjoying the sight of him all too much, feeling such an intense need for him not only physically but more, deeper, like she couldn`t get enough, like an intense restlessness in her entire body that only lessened when she was near him. It swept all tiredness out of her, creating a thrilling energy that just expanded every time she looked at him. The worst part being that he met her gaze a bit too often, grey eyes glinting in amusement and pure longing as she buckled his armour on, the way he brushed against her as they saddled the horses a bit too studiously. It was like the air was full of sparks between them, as if their long talk had bonded them together in a new way. Sandor felt it too, she was sure. He actually bent down and kissed her as soon as Brienne and Jaime went up the hill before them, leading their horses. Somewhat hasty and with a fierceness that nearly made it hard, but nonetheless… Sansa still felt shocked and so breathtakingly in love with him as they rode side by side into the snowdrift again that she wondered why the snow didn`t melt around her.

The forest was just as beautiful as last night, but the snowfall seemed to decrease slowly as they fell into line behind Sandor again, Stranger ploughing away through the drifts in front, looking like nothing could please him more. The change of weather left a slightly different light than before, even making it seem lighter, clearer. The air being crisper somehow. The trees were loaded down in snow, branches hanging low and saplings bent in arches that would spring up and slap them if they did not hold onto them as they passed by. The pines so heavily loaded that they looked like frozen giants, standing still in their silent walk through the woods, showering them in heavy snow when they came near their branches. Which was impossible to avoid, having no path to follow.

Sandor took the worst of it, though, taking the lead, bending forward with his hood up and trying to keep his cloak closed in front, brushing himself off when the snow landed over his thighs, and between the saddle and his legs. Sansa smiled as she heard Sandor muttering praise to his precious courser, the way he pronounced ‘boy’ in his low hoarse voice expressing a strange sort of affection. _It`s Stranger and me, then. The only two creatures he cares about._ She couldn`t even muster any incredulity at sharing a man’s affection with a horse. Sandor had so little love and trust in him, and so many angry defences, that it rather felt like the greatest of compliments to have reached in to him at all.

The trick was being completely honest, Sansa had found. Take a deep breath and look him straight in his intense grey eyes as she ignored blushes and discomfort, saying things truthfully. She had understood that early on in a way, having reflected so much about her troublesome Hound in the Vale, turning his harsh reactions to her chirping at him over and over in her head. Sandor had told her to chirp at anybody else, but not to him, and he`d showed her he could handle everything she threw at him. Except when she`d told him to get his ugly face away from her and go to hell. _Gods, how could I do that? Even with what he said first…_ Then he`d dived straight into the wine. Strange, actually, this hold she had on him. And he had on her.

Sansa had so many defences inside her herself, she trusted him completely but yet… the way icy walls had sprung up in her when he`d spoken about Arya… her disbelief at first as to how her sister could still be alive, ripping up the horrors of watching her father’s beheading, the complete powerlessness and painful slap of understanding when she suddenly saw what Joffrey really was. Realised that Jeyne had been right in crying so helplessly for days. Wait, wasn`t it Sandor who had kicked in her door? Sansa felt nauseous at all the black and suffocating memories that lay deep down in her, rumbling to be let loose. Deepest of them all the sound of her own girlish voice betraying her father, her house, the Stark’s part of Westeros, seeing Queen Cersei’s compassionate smile as she listened to Sansa unknowingly being the small trigger that unleashed the war of the five kings.

Somehow, knowing Sandor had so many dark notches in his belt, made him comforting on that level, too. Once she`d let him in. He knew exactly what she`d meant and had given her a strange sort of respect, knowing nothing could redeem him from his own sins, and accepting her imperfections without breaking stride. Of course, he flashed his anger every time he felt threatened and Sansa’s icy walls went up in the same reaction. But she was still his Little Bird and Sandor was hers in so many ways by now, that she would never let him go. All in all she felt it liberating that she had one person in the world who just shrugged his massive shoulders at the most painful and terrible sides of her, called her Little Bird and let her sleep on his chest.

The terrain was slowly evening out, the sharp wind died down as the landscape changed into more of a forest with its ditches and mires, steep hillsides, thick undergrowth and slopes, but not as rocky as before. Making it easier to descend and allowed them to ride more. Sandor had quietly rasped that she should let Guardian eat everything he wanted except oak and any acorns hiding under the snow.

“Bloody poison for horses, seen them fucking die from it if the quantity`s right…” he grumbled, looking personally offended by this obviously terrible tree’s threat to their mounts.

So they paused every time they found places where lots of brittle winter-grass peaked through the snow, letting the horses eat for half an hour, using their front legs to scrape the snow away to get down to their food. The mounts happily stripped bark from rowans and alder trees, eating twigs with minuscule shoots from maples and even pine needles now and then. Their small party also paused when they came across bushes of wild-roses, the rosehips looking wrinkled and small, covered in snow. But Sandor shook the bushes free of their white blanket and let the mounts eat every rosehip they could reach as he taught her that rosehips contained important nutrients.

“It might go slower this way, but the horses will keep their strength up, and we bloody need our mounts to survive this, without hunger starting to pray on their muscles and guts,” he rasped down at her, his breath misting in front him, making Sansa want to feel it on her skin instead, ending up staring transfixed at his mouth as she felt her nipples tighten in want of those scarred lips encircling them. Until said lips twisted into a grin under her gaze. “My squire isn`t paying attention, now is he? Really, what could be more interesting than making your mount fucking live to carry you home?” he rasped half-mockingly down at her, and stretched his hand out in a excuse to pluck more rosehips, but deliberately brushed over her nipple through her clothes in the process. She gasped as the sensation expanded in her, arousal surging hot and strong, and looked hard at him, hoping it didn`t show all too much on her face

“Well, if you really want to know my good non-ser, I was thinking of your mouth,” she said in a murmur, all too aware of the two people plucking rosehips from the next bush. “You might use it in more pleasing ways than talking about my horse’s intestines.”

Sandor’s grin widened. “You think so, do you? And what do fair maids know of the pleasing ways of a man’s mouth?” he rasped under his breath in return, obviously finding this topic far more interesting himself.

“Well, you have already shown me some of it, and Randa told me… How do you make me talk about such things in the open?” she hissed, dismayed and amused at the same time. He chuckled at her.

“I`m not making you do anything, I was bloody well talking of horses until you dragged my mouth into it.” His eyes were roaming over her body though. “But if you`re a good Little Bird and pay attention to what I`m trying to teach you, I might use my mouth more to _your taste_ later on.” Sansa blushed like a sunset, grateful for the blue light that concealed her utter embarrassment.

Sandor just grinned widely at her from inside his hood, and gave Stranger another mouthful of rosehips. “Now, want to hunt some rabbits when we reach camp?” Sansa found herself smiling up at him, feeling her embarrassment turn to her ever-consuming lust for him, making her behave like a wanton even when he was trying to teach her valuable survival-skills, letting her into some of his world.

“Yes, I would like to go rabbit-hunting with you,” she said earnestly as Guardian pushed her gently with his nose to make her pluck some more rosehips for him. Sandor actually looked grateful for a heartbeat before he took off his glove and stroked her jawline gently, his mouth opening as if he wanted to say something, but deciding against it, leaving Sansa breathless.

Their quiet journey through the snowy night-forest continued as it had before, riding where it was possible and struggling through the snow where the terrain was too demanding. The alteration was welcome, though, getting their pulse up when walking, feet and hands less likely to feel like ice after an hour sliding down snow covered slopes with excited horses doing their best to avoid sliding directly into their masters. It had completely stopped snowing and the air turned colder around them, frosty crystals starting to form on bare branches and the tall grass stalks peaking out of the drifts, and the snow from the pines landing on the horse’s powerful rumps slid off more easily.

Sandor and Stranger cooperated in all and everything, the man’s muttered commands and hoarse praise as Stranger worked hard for him making a beautiful sort of dynamic in Sansa’s opinion. So when they needed to get down a particularly tricky cliff, too little room for mistakes and the possibility of losing your foothold and slide threehundred feet down in the blue darkness making Sansa’s stomach clench in fear, Sandor just started forwards with his faithful courser in tow.

She couldn`t do anything else than admire the way he found a usable track down the cliff side, Stranger sliding and stopping behind him, not putting a hoof where Sandor didn`t want him to, the usually lively stallion standing utterly still behind his master on the small areas where Sandor assessed further descent. Receiving a ‘good boy’ and his neck rubbed before they continued every time, and ending up jumping side by side down the last hang, identical black manes flying. Stranger snorted and arched his neck, topping his ears in pride as Sandor rubbed him roughly, telling him he was a ‘bloody hero’ again. Sansa smiled at the top of the frightening challenge, strangely enough finding herself both in want of similar praise from Sandor and a similar relationship with Guardian.

“Want me to come back up and take him down for you?” Sandor called up to her.

“No, I want to make it on my own,” she called back, feeling an utter fool, like a squire in need of proving himself. Stupidly boyish, acting tough, completely unladylike in every way there was. And so she just took Guardians reins and started forwards, hearing protests both behind her and below as she felt the strain in her calves when she needed to keep her balance and hold a slow pace down the steep side. She followed the track left by Sandor and Stranger, her heart beating loudly in her chest, not hearing what her companions were trying to shout, Guardian sliding after her putting his formidable weigh on his hind-legs, but continuing going forwards as she stopped in front of him, trying to figure out what to do next.

Sansa tried to stop him with her reins, but lost her footing slightly and then felt herself being pushed outside the overhang, clinging to her saddle in terror before she was dragged down the track, panic engulfing her as Guardian lowered his head and desperately tried to put his hocks underneath him again, skidding and sliding like mad. Sansa avoided being flung underneath him by a hair as the track changed direction, and hooked an arm over his neck, fisting his mane as they continued uncontrollably fast down the slope, knowing reins alone could not stop eighty stone of sliding horse anyway, trying feverishly to keep her body away from his legs. Guardian somehow continued in Stranger’s track, shifting directions with desperate twists of his body, falling down on his rump with Sansa clinging to him for all she was worth before suddenly regaining his footing and stopping abruptly right before they fell the last distance down the hang.

“Bloody hells,” she whispered shakily, hearing her sister’s voice as she said it, and dimly upbraided herself for the coarse language. Travelling with Sandor and Jaime did not excuse gaining bad habits like swearing. 

Both horse and mistress breathed like they`d just been running for miles, and Sansa felt tears of relief gather in her eyes, blinking them away furiously, shakily. Sandor was shouting something at her, but she couldn`t quite hear it over the pounding of her heart and the rush in her ears. She just threw Guardian’s reins over his head and gave his rump a slap, making him jump down to Sandor on his own. Sandor looked furious beyond belief, catching her mount’s reins and turning up at her with murder in his eyes. So she jumped, too, knowing he would catch her, feeling his arms go around her, and press her painfully hard against his armour.

“You fucking crazy Little Bird, I`ll bloody wring your neck if you _ever_ do something so immensely stupid again! What the fuck is wrong with you? Not even waiting for instructions? You could bloody well have been trampled to your death, or fallen to it, or… seven hells, Sansa!” He sounded like he would like nothing better than to shake some sense into her, but the way he crushed her towards him, his good cheek pressed against hers told her just how frightened he`d been. Sansa held him hard in return and whispered shakily into his ear.

“I`m so sorry, I just didn`t think… I`m so sorry, Sandor, please. It frightened me so much, and I know I was stupid, I won`t do it again I swear! Is Guardian all right?”

Sandor pressed his lips to her cheek, muttered ‘stupid bird’ sounding nearly affectionate in a furious sort of way and put her to the ground, turning to her mount. Guardian stood looking quite proud of himself and Sansa shook her head at him, but patted him nonetheless as Sandor checked his legs and body.

“Seems fine,” he grumbled at her as Jaime and Honour came jumping down, followed by Brienne and Daisy.

“Right, now I`ve also seen a noblewoman in free-fall... Bloody shame you didn`t wear skirts,” Jaime said, looking sideways at her. Brienne punched his arm and Sandor growled something about lion-pelts at the same time, making Sansa laugh despite everything, relief still pulsing through her.

“I`m sorry, I don`t know why in the Maiden’s name I did that. I must be starting to believe I really _am_ a squire with sawdust for brain…” she said, looking ruefully at them all. Brienne smiled at her and Jaime chuckled. Sandor just met her gaze quietly, making her legs feel shaky for totally different reasons.

They continued onwards, Sansa doing exactly as she was bid as they neared the invisible border to the riverlands. A quietness was sinking over them all as hours of walking and riding caught up with their small party, until the moon suddenly broke through the clouds of the night sky, bathing them all in glittering silver light, casting everything in sharp contrasts, making the snow sparkle like thousands of brilliant crystals and the birch trees’ white bark started glowing against the dark background of pines. The horses raised their heads at the sudden light, and Sansa thought it was the most beautiful sight she`d ever seen.

Sandor started pointing out tracks for Sansa after that, showing her the long strides and four-toed footprint of elks and the small stick-thin holes in the snow with tiny two-toed footprints of deer. They came across the sharp line of tracks of trotting foxes, and finally came across several prints from rabbits. Sandor looked pleased, and fished out several circular wires supplied with thin, strong string from his saddlebags, pocketing them inside his cloak.

“What do you say Lion? Shall we make camp here? Lots of game and nice enough to defend up against the ridge there,” he rasped, standing turned in his saddle. Brienne grinned at him.

“Look, a built up path, around the ridge. Bet that follows up to an ever better place,” she said, sounding sweetly hesitant at contradicting Sandor in anything, but the stubborn set to her face telling she would not back down on it either.

“Fuck me, you`re right,” Sandor grumbled, sending Brienne a look of grudging respect as they started towards the path, climbing up the ridge on eager horses. Finding pure luxury.

“Splendid, Brienne! Have I mentioned that I love y… your eyesight!” Jaime exclaimed brightly, still coming sideways out of what he`d actually said. Making Brienne look long at him, blushing for all her worth, but looking a mixture of vulnerable and suspicious as well. Sandor snorted at them both but sent Sansa a quick, penetrating look before dismounting outside.

It was obviously a hunting lodge, being the meeting point between the riverlands and the mountains, specked with game travelling down to easier grazing when winter came. It was small and cramped once they`d brought both themselves and their saddlebags and packs inside, but separated into a kitchen with a stove and the room containing the fireplace. It was pure comfort, no doubt about it. _How sulky I would have been for spending the night in such low standards some years ago…_

Sansa helped Brienne gather branches and what little winter-grass there was to find for the horses, and jumped into her planned pillow-talk before she could change her mind. Knowing very well that Sandor would make her moan again tonight, no matter how silent she would try to be, as her whole body was already longing for bedtime.

“Brienne, I… Sandor means a lot to me,” she started, blushing just as much as the large woman beside her.

“I can see that, and… well, he seems to care for you too,” Brienne replied in a low voice.

“So, you don`t mind us sharing blankets?” Sansa murmured as she cut off maple branches with larger shoots than rowans. Brienne grinned embarrassed.

“I can`t be prudish here, now can I?” she replied shyly, hitching a large bundle of branches up on her shoulder.”

“No, actually – you can`t!” Sansa found herself grinning. “Is he kind to you? And have you... you know… is Jaime good with his hands… hand?” she asked, feeling that the pillow-talk was starting to bring results already. Brienne looked both embarrassed and as if she really wanted someone to talk to about the matter.

“Yes, he is… and he kisses me, and… well, he is so _handsome!”_ she blurted before she went white as a sheet, “No, I mean, not that not… I`m sorry,” she ended in a whisper. Sansa just laughed at her.

“Jaime is handsome, no doubt about it, Brienne. Just as you seem to like your men. But I can`t even _breathe_ properly around Sandor anymore. I know he`s not comely, but by the Maiden… Just imagine him without clothes!” she grinned at the shocked expression on the face of the maid beside her.

“I couldn`t, that wouldn`t be proper, Sansa, my lady…” she stuttered.

“I`m not asking you to be proper. I can imagine Jaime without clothes. I bet he look exactly like the knights from the stories. And don`t tell me you haven`t seen him naked after sharing blankets with him for several nights - and the hayloft!” she felt like her face would split from her grin, finally understanding the complete magnificence of such talk, regretting the lack of Randa.

“Well, yes, I`ve seen him _nearly_ naked and he looks… fabulous, and he knows how to kiss and make me want to... But I can`t, Sansa. I`ve… they`ve even competed about who would get into my breeches, just to disgrace me…” she whispered bitterly. Sansa felt like a stone sunk in her stomach.

“Who? Was Jaime part of it? Sandor..?” she dropped her voice to a whisper as she placed the fodder in front of the horses and ignored Stranger’s threats, trying to be quiet so as not to alert the men gathering firewood.

“No. It was the men in Renly’s camp who bet about it, and no… Jaime was a real… a _real_ shit towards me for ages, but something changed somewhere, and he saved me from pit-fighting a bear in a dress with a blunted sword. I was in a dress armed with a blunted sword, not the bear, but… after that he kind of… changed his attitude, and I didn`t want to, but now he feels like my best friend and… more, but… Yes, and Clegane just treats me like his annoying little sister or something. I think it`s a compliment, but at least he has only flipped me on my back to demonstrate his superior fighting skills.”

Brienne sounded annoyed beyond belief at the last, and Sansa’s first reaction was to shake her head inwardly at the large woman’s naïve ways of saying things sometimes. Knowing Brienne meant it in the competitive way of training, and didn`t understand how it _could_ be interpreted, or that Sansa could have been offended by it. But she ended up looking wide-eyed at the large woman, nonetheless. Part in immense surprise at the flow of words suddenly released from her usually silent mouth, but also in shock at what life managed to throw at people.

“So the men in Renly’s camp _bet_ about who would take your maidenhead? No wonder you watch yourself… and you fought a _bear_ in a pit? And Jaime _saved_ you?” she murmured, wondering why Jaime hadn`t bragged about the deed, finding only one conclusion…

“Yes,” Brienne said, going back to her quiet self once more, looking sad.

“But, that`s nearly romantic, Brienne! He really must care for you to do that, Jaime’s never been the most conscientious of people… And just as you know, you _can_ let him please you and still be a maid. It`s no dishonour in that. Might not be proper lady behaviour, but... _I`m_ still a maid,” she said as they went back for more branches. Brienne turned her beautiful, honest eyes at her, and Sansa could suddenly see the attraction she obviously had on Jaime, despite her scarred face and large body.

“You are? I thought… begging your pardon, but tents have thin walls, and it sounded a bit too… I thought you already had, because Jaime said…” she trailed off, but even though she blushed there was something expectant in her glance.

Sansa suddenly felt like the experienced courtesan of the two of them, and grinned as she shared the little she knew. “You can get a release and be pleasured in other ways than, you know… _fucking.”_ They both blushed at that. “The way Sandor kisses me, and touches my breasts and… down there. It feels wonderful, and you can touch Jaime in return, too, if you want to. Sandor likes it, at least. Just try, it feels wonderful. And if you don`t like it, you`ll probably be able to throw him bodily from your bedroll, anyway,” Sansa said, feeling positively mischievous to be teaching this honourable woman such things. Brienne grinned back, looking shy and embarrassed, but catching on.

“He did touch me, down there, in the hayloft, but not… you know… inside. But it felt good. And he… he _released_ after a while, um… using his hand on himself as we were partly undressed together… so do you think he finds me… likeable?” she ended up whispering to Sansa, making her heart go out to the woman.

“I think he finds you much more than likable, Brienne,” she whispered back, smiling earnestly at her.

Returning to the lodge, they found it slowly starting to warm up as Jaime kept putting wood into the fire, muttering that now it had stopped snowing they could only pray that they`d managed to lose their pursuers or it would just be a case of following their tracks here anyway.

Sandor filled the narrow door completely as he walked in with more rotten branches and dried wood from fallen trees, putting it in a heap on the floor.

“Come on squire, get me out of this armour. Time to go snare some rabbits, or hares more like it so high in the terrain,” he rasped down at her, not being able to straighten to his full height under the low roof.

Sansa grinned at him and helped relieve him of his jingling armour before following his broad back out, leaving Brienne with Jaime. Sandor closed the door behind her and they went for each other in the same instant. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and quietly kissed him as fiercely as she could, needing his touch and kisses after hours without, pressing her body up against him and receiving the same treatment in return, being kissed hungrily up against the door, his hands sliding down her body, grabbing her bottom and pressing her towards him.

They only broke the kiss because the both of them knew that the faster they did this last task, the faster they would be able to embrace each other without clothes instead. And neither of them needed to say _that_ out loud for the other to understand.

Sandor kissed her longingly once more before nearly hesitantly taking her hand, looking down on their entwined fingers like he didn`t quite know how such things worked, brow furrowed and shooting her a glare as if to dare her to say anything about it. But then he turned and started for the path down the ridge, holding her hand firmly in his own as they walked through the moonlit forest together, just the two of them, making Sansa’s heart soar in her chest, her brilliant mood completed by the glittering landscape around them.


	22. What snaring rabbits does to dogs and wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of you have no doubt survived GRRM's gore-filled battle-scenes, nasty torture, pink masts, eating of raw horse-heart etc etc, so I think you`ll survive a piece of reality...
> 
> BUT:  
> Warning for the faint-hearted; they`re field-dressing hares in this chapter.

Sansa had thought she would only follow Sandor as he, in some mysterious way, hunted down some rabbits. But strangely enough, she found herself completely absorbed in the capable way Sandor showed her the snares, how they trapped the poor animal and held it in place until someone came for their pray.

“Rabbits and hares change their feeding habits in winter, and that`s fucking important to know so you know where to put your snares. With a lack of grass and leaves they eat shoots and bark and seeds, and start gathering in groups when living in higher terrain. The little buggers also change their fur, all to protect them from predators like lynx, fox, eagles and… wolves,” he rasped in a low voice as they walked back following their own tracks, grinning wryly at her. She smiled back.

“What about dogs?” she murmured.

“Should bloody well look out for them, too,” he replied. “But so should wolves.”

“Really? And what would a dog like you do to a wolf like me then, Sandor? You never told me,” she smiled at him, knowing very well by now how he responded to the right words, seeing his scarred lips part slightly as he suddenly looked at her with pure lust burning in his eyes.

“Seven hells, didn`t I? This dog would like to fuck a wolf like you until you cry my name begging for more, even though you feel like you wouldn`t fucking survive the pleasure of it. Instead I`ll teach you a thing or two about what a tongue can do,” he rasped at her, sounding thrillingly threatening.

Sansa felt how _she_ suddenly responded to _his_ words, and decided to make it a challenge, staring heatedly up at him. “Looking forward to it…” she started boldly enough, blushing as she continued. “Can it be that you want me to make you _growl_ as prettily as I sing, perhaps? Do you want to feel my tongue on you as well?” she murmured, her cheeks hot, but feeling warmth spread between her legs, too, at the thought. Sandor stopped abruptly, turning to her.

“You never stop surprising me, do you?” he replied hoarsely and closed the gap between them, taking her hand and placing it over his manhood… his cock, he called it… “This is how much I want to fuck that sweet mouth of yours, feel your tongue on me,” he nearly groaned as Sansa tightened her grip around the hard outline of him, her own arousal whirling uncontrollably around in her body. She stood there, fondling him in the moonlit forest, his hand tightening around the snares he held as he pressed himself into her palm, his breath coming fast as he made a small sound of pleasure into her hair when she stroked him with her fingertips, rubbed him with her palm. And then she let him go, smiling mischievously up at his face.

“Good to know. Let`s snare some rabbits, then!” she said, and laughed softly at the outrage that crossed Sandor’s face before he grumblingly continued striding through the snow, muttering about ‘bloody evil women,’ adjusting his breeches.

He found the tracks easily enough, though, obviously knowing exactly where hares liked to be. Their two big hind paws made large prints in front of the two small marks left by their forepaws, in straight lines over open ground, and crisscrossing back and forth between the undergrowth. He showed her where the hares had eaten the bark of bushes and scrub and their dry, round droppings, before uncoiling one of the snares. 

Sansa watched in fascination as Sandor cut off a sapling, and shoved the little tree hard down in the snow, wedging it in between the other bushes where the track was at its narrowest. He tied the string that was attached to the wire noose to the sapling’s trunk with several knots, a couple of feet above the snow. His fingers moving deftly with practiced efficiency, so that the circular wire hung a few inches above the ground. Lastly he broke off two thin sticks with which he fixed the wire in place with, so that the loop couldn`t move, making it next to invisible amongst the undergrowth and stiff stalks peaking up through the snow. 

“Four more to go,” he grunted, but let her stroke his back before he got up, amusement suddenly glinting in his eyes. “You`ll set the next snare yourself.” 

“What? But… I`ve only seen it done this once!” she said urgently under her breath, and struggled to keep up with his long strides as he continued through the quiet forest, so incredibly light and glittering with the moon shining like a silver disk in the night-sky, every shadow sharp in the much more prominent cold. 

In the end he drilled her through all four, making her find the tracks herself and telling him where she thought it best to set the snare. Then he showed her the knot she should use and how tight the string should be, lecturing her quietly in his hoarse rasp, making Sansa feel lightheaded in love with him again. Watching him demonstrate how the hare would get snared in one of her traps, she couldn`t help but think that all his knowledge of the forest, tracking and hunting, had been wasted in King’s Landing, where as far as she remembered he`d been either on duty or drunk.

“Why did you drink so much before?” she blurted out of nowhere as they started towards the lodge again. Sandor looked at her, surprised.

“Why the hell do you want to know? I`m as sober as I get right now,” he grumbled, looking down at her, the burnt side of his mouth twitching slightly in irritation.

“I want… to really know you… and I thought, you know so many things, but back then you were either on duty or… drunk,” she said, feeling his hard gaze on her. “I just thought it a bit of waste, you could have gone hunting instead for instance.” 

Sandor snorted. 

“What the fuck do you think I did more or less the whole bloody time Robert was king, eh? The bugger himself was pretty soon too fat to track down his own game, so guess who was sent to drive the king’s deer to the useless fucker? Couldn`t even manage to _receive_ game in the end. That boar gored him before he could get his rolls of fat into motion.”

“I didn`t see you go out hunting after King Robert died, though,” Sansa said quietly, meeting his gaze searchingly. _Don`t avoid the question._

“Hunted you down time and again, at least,” he growled in reply. 

“Yes, when you were drunk. Why did you drink so much before?” she probed, feeling so stubborn that she could nearly _see_ Arya before her. _Or Jon._

“Bloody hells, woman!” Sandor erupted. “I needed peace and sleep and it`s fucking brilliant being drunk when the rest of the world`s not worth the shit under your boots! What`s your buggering problem with that?” he glared down at her, his mouth twitching, his brow furrowed in anger.

“That you seemed so incredibly angry and unhappy,” Sansa answered quietly and stroked his arm. He looked like he didn`t know what to say to that, and ended up striding along, glancing sideways at her instead.

“I can sleep when I`m with you,” he muttered hoarsely, before they came up to the lodge. “And you give me peace, when you`re not making my insides a bloody heaving chaos.” Sansa felt completely overwhelmed by his sudden confiding, reminding her of the way he`d told her about his burns after the Hand’s tourney, so utterly unexpected. _But drunk as a dog._ Sandor was sober now, though, glancing at her like he felt embarrassed, but stubbornly keeping his brow furrowed, his anger in place. And turned away from her, his cloak sweeping the snow as he strode on long legs up to the door and bent down to get in, leaving Sansa trudging along after him, completely baffled, but with her love for him singing in her. 

They went inside, finding the lodge pleasantly warm and dimly lit by the flickering light from the flames in the fireplace and stove in the kitchen. Jaime was cleaning Brienne’s wound, gently holding onto her muscular arm as he used a clean rag and water in lack of anything else. Brienne gave Sansa a smile over Jaime’s head and nodded at the stove.

“Wash-water. I`ve already boiled it up, you can wash first if you like,” she said and Sansa grinned back, happy for a chance to wash before… She felt herself blush and dived into the kitchen, only to be disturbed a heartbeat later when Sandor barged in with their saddlebags.

“Thought you would like to have something to wash yourself _with_ and clean clothes,” he rasped, looking amused. Sansa laughed at that, feeling foolish, and happy that he seemed to cool down from his anger faster now than before.

“Yes, I would, thank you. But you _could_ knock, you know…” she murmured.

“I`ve seen you naked before, haven`t I?” he replied in a low voice. Sansa slapped his arm softly.

“You are incorrigible, do you know that?” she smiled up at him. He grinned wryly back and lowered his head, strong fingers turning her face away from him when she expected to be kissed on her mouth. Instead he kissed her neck, slowly, insistently. His hands cupped her breasts, stroking and squeezing them gently until he closed in on her nipples, pinching her but moving his thumbs and forefingers at the same time. Sansa went up on tiptoe in pure heavy, consuming need, instantly aching in dull thuds between her legs, her arms going around him as she gasped, breath coming raggedly in pleasure. And then he just let her go.

“We`re even, Little Bird,” he grinned and left, bending low through the door and closing it behind him, leaving Sansa to a quite oversensitive washing-experience. 

When they were all finally cleaned up, in fresh clothes, armour off and stacked to be put on in a hurry if they needed to, small cuts and Sandor’s stitches cleaned to the best of Sansa’s abilities, she sat chewing dried meat and eating cheese before the fire in the warm lodge, feeling happy and safe. And free. She was with friends who knew her name and birth, but treated her like one of them, even though she didn`t wear armour and acted like a foolish squire sometimes. She was about to propose they all go to bed, except Brienne who had the watch, as pink light started seeping through the shutters. But then Sandor got up and put his cloak on.

“Where are you going _now?”_ Sansa asked, confused. He`d gone out without bothering to put on a cloak when he went to make water earlier.

“To check the snares,” he answered gruffly, and Sansa suddenly realised he was dead tired, having had the watch before they even started on tonight’s trip, and only slept a few hours before that. “Light`s coming, and with that the hares usually go to rest. No use waiting for the fox to eat our food.” 

“I`ll join you,” she said, thinking she really was head over heels in love with him to leave this dry, warm shelter for the snow once more. Sandor looked dubiously at her.

“You do understand that I most certainly will find live hares, kill them and field-dress them, don`t you?” he rasped warningly. Sansa swallowed, thinking of sweet, soft-furred rabbits with large eyes blinking at her.

“Yes,” she heard herself say with a tremor, and then upbraided herself mightily for her foolish reaction. Really, she`d ordered and watched Sandor slit three men’s throats without feeling anything other than cold, sad regret for the necessity.

“As long as you don`t start shrieking at me,” Sandor grumbled and held the door for her. 

She smiled at him for the gesture as she walked out, swinging her cloak over her shoulders. “Look who`s trying to gain some manners,” she said lightly, earning a rude snort in return.

As they walked down the path once more, the sunrise bathed the whole landscape around them in pink shadows and pure gold, the cold making everything clearer, crisper. Snow tingled down from snow-covered branches glittering and sparkling in the early sunlight as they walked by, their breath misting in front of them. Sansa felt like she was looking at a world from a song or a story, all the colours highlighted, the sky pink and clear blue. It even contained the hero, striding along tall and broad, sword at his hip, protective and passionate. With an attitude to life that made her grin, starting to love his rough ways and survival skills, quietly reflecting that it reminded her of the men of the north. For the first time in her life Sansa could suddenly appreciate the northmen’s lack of flamboyance, all hard and stubborn, made tough for surviving the winter. The simple beauty of persistence and strength. 

It turned out they had caught two hares. Sansa was amazed at how big they were, the largest around two and a half feet, and their winter fur not yet completely white. Sandor made short work of them both, breaking their necks with a snap, but it had still pained Sansa to see their futile panic as the humans approached them. 

Sandor glanced at her as he coiled up the snares and pocketed them.

“No tender lady anymore, are you?” he rasped in a low voice, brilliant sunlight glistening in his hair, highlighting the deep grey of his eyes.

“Have you ever met the ladies of Bear Island?” Sansa replied dryly. “Winter is already here and I am a northwoman after all. I had best make them proud.” 

Sandor watched her quietly, before he turned to the hares once more. “I think you`re bloody going to at this rate... Left hare`s yours, do as I do.” And then he held up the poor thing and squeezed it from its stomach and down, making urine trickle out of it. Sansa did the same with hers, feeling slightly ill, but stubbornly carried on. Sandor unsheathed his knife and held his hand out for hers, testing the edge, sharpening it quickly on his whetstone before giving it back.

He let his knife slide around the lower legs of his hare, cutting through the skin, before swiftly putting it on its back in the snow, inserting his knife over the hare’s chest wall and making shallow cuts down its abdomen, careful not to pierce anything else but the top layer. Sansa had already given up following him, and watched his experienced hands with their thin silver scars in slightly nauseous admiration. He wrenched the skin to the sides, separating it from the muscle beneath, displaying the hare’s intestines as he held the animal up by its neck.

“Watch, two fingers in here, high up under its chest-bone, and then drag out its heart and lungs – and the rest will follow,” Sandor rasped as he demonstrated with competence. “If something`s left you remove it like this, and turn it. Right, then you loosen its skin from its back.” In his strong hands it looked like the easiest thing in the world to separate the skin from hare’s body, ending with dragging the whole skin off its legs, and cutting the hare’s head off, complete with the skin hanging from it. 

Sandor held up the meat, and Sansa marvelled that the carnage had suddenly turned into food before her eyes, and nearly without using his knife! So she took a deep breath, ignored the nausea and set to her task determinedly. Sandor rasped instructions and helped her where she needed it. The feeling of warm hare’s intestines in her hand had her on the brink of retching, but she swallowed her bile and retrieved her pride, finally standing there with her first kill, field-dressed and ready for the pot, and with surprisingly little blood into the bargain.

Walking towards the lodge again, hands cleaned thoroughly in the snow, she grinned proudly up at Sandor, and he looked down at her in amusement as he clapped her roughly on her back. “I would never have believed you capable of that, you know,” he rasped, and laughed at her outraged expression. “Your savage little sister, no doubt, but _you_ … bloody hells, I thought the only things you were any fucking good at was buggering around with embroidery, or some such, and looking pretty.” Sansa laughed in amused disbelief after proving herself this whole journey, and bent straight down to fill her hands with snow. Sandor’s eyes narrowed. “Go on, Little Bird,” he growled. 

So Sansa flung the snow right in his face and started running towards the lodge, laughing and feeling adrenaline pump through her as Sandor picked up the chase. She didn`t have a chance, of course, and was hunted down and swept off her feet before even reaching the path up the ridge. Sandor just swung her directly onto his massive shoulder, as if she weighted nothing at all, making her squeal in a strange sort of delight. She hung there laughing helplessly side by side with a pair of dead hares as he effortlessly carried her up to the lodge, patted her bottom and opened the door, bending low and carrying her right inside, ignoring her splutters. 

Jaime and Brienne stared incredulously at them as Sandor hung the hares inside the door, bid them a good rest and quiet watch, and carried Sansa mortified beyond belief, but still laughing, into the kitchen. He kicked the door shut behind them, but not before Sansa heard Jaime exclaim that if Brienne wanted the same service he would probably die from the strain.

Sandor let her slide against him down to the floor, his hands squeezing her buttocks as he met her gaze, grinning as he kissed her. Heatedly and fierce. Igniting her as lust instantly fanned into a blaze, making her press herself towards him.

“You`re hard,” she whispered into his mouth, all embarrassment forgotten.

“Believe me, I know,” he gasped back as she freed him of his cloak, and started unbuckling his swordbelt. “Seeing you skin hares does bloody strange things to me.” 

She laughed at him as he lowered his weapons to the floor beside their bedrolls. “So it has nothing to do with you catching me as well, carrying me home like your other prey?” she whispered and started kissing his neck as they undressed each other, breathing more and more rapidly. Sandor’s pulse was racing under her lips and he slid his hands up under her breasts, drawing circles with his thumbs, making her pant in arousal. 

“Seems to me that worked pretty well for you, too,” he murmured hoarsely at her as he descended on her laces. 

“So is that all dogs do to wolves? Hunt them down?” she smiled at him, feeling herself blush, but being rewarded with a ragged exhale from Sandor.

“Fuck, you`re eager!” he groaned. “No, don`t go all ladylike on me, it`s bloody brilliant,” he continued when she stopped dragging off his tunics. She grinned at him, not really offended, and watched in fascination at how he wrenched the garments off in that way only men seemed capable of, baring solid muscle, his many scars and the straight, black hair covering his chest, the stripe of it leading directly down to the bulge in his breeches. Sansa felt her desire surge sky-high, groaning softly through gritted teeth as she stroked up his stomach.

“Do you have any idea how nice you look without clothes?” she panted up at him, feeling how the hard muscles in his stomach tensed in Sandor’s sudden intake of breath. “With clothes, too, for that matter. I can`t take my eyes off you.” He chuckled at her, but there was something in the way he met her eyes searchingly that made her think he was checking for foolish flattery. She gave him an exasperated look. “You don`t need to be comely to be amazingly delicious,” she whispered and unlaced his breeches, making his head drop as he exhaled sharply, need and arousal burning in his grey gaze as he locked his eyes to hers again, but also displaying something strange and tender ending up with his lips twisting into a rueful half-grin. He didn`t answer, but dragged off her tunics instead and started kissing her neck heatedly as he finished unlacing her breeches, sending her into a pounding need for his touch. 

She freed his manhood and wrapped her hand around him, instantly being crushed towards him as he responded heavily, groaning into her hair as she started moving her hand. He smelled so good! Sansa was standing there with her face pressed to his chest, feeling how he fucked slowly into her hand beside her waist as she embraced him with her free arm, holding him tight, kissing his skin, hearing his sounds of pleasure. Loving him. 

Sandor ended up kicking off his boots and discarding the rest of their clothes in a hurry, kissing her more or less the whole time, stirring her into a frenzy with the way he _nearly_ touched her but didn`t. He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around him, feeling how his manhood moved against her bottom, sending her arousal even higher, making her move her hips against him. He groaned and bent down to grab his bedroll, laying it on top of the rough table at the end of the small room and placed her on top.

“You`re a lady after all, Little Bird,” he rasped under his breath, grinning wryly at her. “Don`t tell Jaime or the bugger will use the rest of his fucking life to laugh at me for being bloody _gallant._ ” 

“Thank you,” she murmured back as he kissed her sitting naked on the edge of the table, now more of a height with him, blushing slightly at being so uncovered. His fingers continued to trace the underside of her breasts, stroking up her thighs, lightly touching her mound, having her gasping and pressing herself towards him. Their naked skin slid so magnificently against each other as their hands caressed each other’s bodies, his hard manhood pressing against her thigh, making her wonder yet again how it would feel to have him take her maidenhead. 

His fingers inside her yesterday had felt so wonderful. There had been a heartbeat of discomfort when he`d slid the second finger in, but at the same time the pleasure had completely overwhelmed her. Just the thought of his manhood sliding into her instead was enough to have her moan softly into their heated kiss. It would certainly hurt in the beginning, but as he had already shown her how much pleasure he was capable of giving her with just his fingers, she wasn`t too worried. To be… _fucked_ for real by Sandor… how he would look when he finally got what she knew he wanted so badly… 

“Are you done torturing me? Or would you care to _touch_ me now?” she gasped into his ear, holding him hard around his neck, spreading her legs properly by wrapping them around his waist, tilting her hips. And felt how his manhood brushed against her nub. They both moaned, suddenly creating a breathless sort of anticipation. Sandor’s arms tensed around her, his hands were twined into her hair and he fisted it as he carefully bucked his hips again so the head of his member rubbed her nub, meeting her gaze quietly. Sansa moaned softly, raggedly, so incredibly sensitive and longing for friction, tilting her hips more so that the next slow buck of his hips made him touch her opening and slide her wetness up over her nub, creating such a heavy flash of arousal that she arched up against him in burning need, whimpering in pleasure, feeling how his arms took her weight before she tentatively lowered herself down so he pressed against her entrance.

Sandor groaned helplessly and froze above her, against her, his arms iron around her. Breathing hard as he shifted and started caressing her breast, his other arm holding her up against him, having her moaning in a strange, deep kind of desperation and pleasure. Sansa saw the longing in his eyes as she moved her hips slightly despite her every intention, both groaning as the pressure created a simmering need for _more,_ radiating through her from where their bodies touched. Sandor started bucking his hips slightly, making her moan and him utter a strangled sound as he gave her an anguished look, pressing the head of his member harder against her entrance. He added even more pleasure by stroking his thumb over her stiff nipple and kissing her firmly, having her moaning shakily as his tongue slid against hers. But then he drew back slightly, putting her down on the table again as he smiled wryly at her.

“I hear no moaning of my name,” he murmured breathlessly in his hoarse voice, his manhood still teasing her, “no begging.” And then he withdrew in full, leaving her aching for more, for pressure and fulfilment, disappointment screaming in her whole body.

“No, no… I… it felt so _good!”_ she gasped squirming up against him, so aroused that she felt like she would die on the spot if she didn`t get a release soon, making the frustrating man beside her widen his grin.

“Seven flaming hells, Sansa, that was bloody _pathetic_ begging! You`ll need to do a hell of a lot better than that,” Sandor rasped, for some reason just looking amused at her through his curtain of black hair, even though he breathed raggedly and rubbed his rock hard manhood against her thigh. She met his gaze and tried to press him towards her so his manhood could tease her entrance again, longing for the feeling. Unfortunately he turned out to be impossible to move. “Forget it Little Bird. I won`t fuck you today no matter what you`re singing now. Try again tomorrow.” He grinned wryly at her, and Sansa heard her own needy and annoyed sound escape her lips, suddenly really _wanting_ him to fuck her, press his manhood into her, pain and all. Here… _now!_ The maiden have mercy, she wanted him so much! She looked furiously at him through her dazed state and he laughed his hoarse laugh right in her face.

“You insufferable… is this how you treat… damn you!” she whispered angrily at him, and slapped him hard across the shoulder. He just wrapped his arms around her, pinning her hands down.

“I might need to go fuck Brienne instead, though. Bugger me, I`m so _hellishly_ aroused right now,” he all but groaned, mirth in his eyes as he kissed her deeply and bucked his hips in a slow rhythm up against her, strong arms holding her tight. 

“Brienne would castrate you, you do realise that?” Sansa said into their kiss, her fury drowning in lust and amusement. “And Jaime would have a fit.”

“Fucking hell, you`re right,” he gasped back as she bit his lower lip not _quite_ gently. “But at this rate I`ll settle for Daisy. I would have fought Stranger for her right this instance.” Sansa broke down in silent laughter and Sandor grinned widely at her. “See what you bloody do to me, woman?”

She grinned back and hugged him to her, feeling flattered for some reason, and continued kissing him, their tongues and naked bodies stirring them both into another state of equally intense need for each other. Sandor started kissing her down her body, making her lean back on her hands as he finally, _finally_ took her nipple in his mouth, his tongue circling her, licking her before he changed breast and sucked gently on her stiff nipple until she squirmed in agonizing arousal, her head thrown back in pleasure, feeling new wetness spread between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him again and lay down on her back, making Sandor lean over her as she combed her fingers into his hair, groaning as she felt his teeth around her nipple. The shaft of him rubbing her oh so deliciously between her legs as he moved his hips, her hands pressing his head towards her breast, completely dazed by the heavy flashes of pure pleasure he created in her.

Sandor continued down her stomach, kissing her oh so sweetly, the loss of his cock rubbing up against her instantly replaced by anticipation, making her writhe as he neared her ladyparts. She spread her legs wide for him and moaned when he breathed fast and hot over her womanhood before kissing the inside of her thigh, licking her, making her hips move of their own accord as the burning need turned almost painful. He shifted his position and lifted her further onto the table before placing her legs over his massive shoulders, leaning on his elbows as his hands stroked over her stomach and down to her mound. His thumbs parted her lips gently, his breath caressing her before she arched in pleasure as his tongue slid softly, hotly, over her aching nub, feeling so different from his calloused fingers, the sensation exploding in her, knowing it was his mouth, his _tongue_ giving her such a heavenly soft kind of friction.

Sansa didn`t know what to do with herself as he continued, his tongue hot as he licked her, flicked over her nub, teasing her into a nearly too-intense pleasure that made her whimper in need. She lifted her head and was struck by the sheer arousing picture of Sandor’s muscular arms wrapped around her thighs, his black hair spilling down from his powerful shoulders as he buried his face between her legs. Sansa’s thighs tightened around him as he kissed her, sucking gently on her nub, making a long shaky moan escape her lips. 

His arms tensed over her hips as he spread her legs wide again and slid his tongue agonizingly slowly across her entrance, his thumb moving to draw circles over her wet nub as he licked down again and let his tongue slide inside her, taking her completely by surprise. She already felt on the edge of peaking and arched again, _nearly_ there, gasping for breath as his thumb circled faster over her when he _fucked_ her with his tongue! Before changing so he kissed her nub once more, releasing one hip and holding his weight on one arm as he let two fingers slide gently into her again, not hurting at all this time, just giving her that wonderful fulfilling feeling. Sandor moved them rhythmically in and out of her as he grazed her nub with his teeth, his tongue moving insistently, thrillingly firm and soft at the same time, building her up until she held him tight with the leg over his shoulder and both hands buried in his hair, hearing herself whimpering ‘please’ as he groaned in need against her nub… and bit her ever so gently.

She arched high and moaned helplessly, crashing into a release she had no way of controlling, her whole body pulsing as wave after wave of red-hot pleasure from Sandor’s mouth, his tongue, his teeth, his fingers, swept her away. She heard how her moan turned shakily pleading, fisting his hair as he doggedly held the rhythm until she collapsed down on the table, dimly grateful for the bedroll, as she shivered in after-shocks and dazedly tried to catch her breath. 

Her thumping heart and ragged breathing sounded loud in her own ears, until Jaime’s voice called through the wall from the next room. 

“Brilliant Clegane! _Splendid_ performance in showing off like the cock you are!” Sandor broke down laughing hoarsely between her legs and Sansa blushed madly, so embarrassed that she felt like hiding.

“Shut the fuck up you bloody bastard, and do your own work properly!” Sandor shouted back, before he wiped his mouth and released her thighs to lift her limp body and the bedroll alike down to the floor, laying himself down beside her, completely unabashed by the rude exchange of words as he pressed his face into her neck.

“Don`t mind him, Little Bird. I`m a brute and he`s a cheeky bastard, nothing anyone can do…” he rasped into her neck.

Sansa embraced him, starting to grin about the whole thing and concluded that she`d been living with men far too long. She kissed Sandor’s scarred temple and held him tight as he started stroking his manhood, her body completely lax and so sated that it took her a moment to realise that Sandor was quickly nearing his own release, making small sounds of pleasure as he pressed himself towards her, stroking his cock hard and fast against her thigh, breathing raggedly into her hair.

“Wait,” she murmured and stilled his hand with her own. He looked at her with grey eyes glazed with pleasure and unfulfilled need, groaning half in protest when she took his hand away from his member, seeing how his cock moved in desperate want of friction. Trying to regain her senses she put his hand up to her face and kissed his callused palm. He made a low growl deep in his throat and turned his hand to caress her jaw line, before stroking his index finger across her lips. She smiled and let her lips slide down his broad finger, licking him, sucking him, just as Randa had whispered to her back in the Vale. He moaned softly, bucking his hips in pleasure, and looked at her with a nearly anguished expression, breathing heavily, before pressing her towards him, gently nudging her down his body. 

Sansa smiled at him. “Do you want me to… use my mouth on you, Sandor?” she whispered at him. He groaned breathlessly at her, his manhood jumping against her stomach. 

“Yes,” he gasped shakily. So she kissed him down his stomach, like he had done for her, and felt his member stroke silkily between her breasts and then against her cheek, hot and heavy, as she reached down to his groin. Sandor was panting in anticipation and moisture was leaking from the head of his hard shaft, obviously at the brink of what he could take. Sansa’s hair whisked over him, making him moan as her tresses caressed him when she looked up at him again, seeking guidance. 

“You`ll have to tell me how you want it, then,” she murmured, feeling a touch insecure. 

“Seven bleeding hells, Sansa, I want to fuck that lush mouth of yours more than anything right now… just slide your lips around me and… _please,_ for fuck’s sake!” he groaned raggedly.

His hips bucked slightly in need and he moaned longingly as she returned his earlier favour and let him feel her breath, before licking hesitantly over the head of his manhood. His clean, salty taste stirred something in her, his fluid slick on her tongue for an instant, making arousal surge hot in her again. Sandor groaned helplessly and fisted the bedroll as she bent low and let her lips slide slowly over the head of him, trying to give him what he had given her. He gasped shakily and bucked his hips, entwining his hand into her hair, putting a light pressure on her to make her take more of him into her mouth. That he seemed to like what she was doing encouraged her, her own lust shimmering hotly as he raised himself up on his elbow to watch when she obliged and started moving her head up and down tentatively, loving the thrilling feeling of his cock in her mouth, the way he started moving gently in pace with her, groaning through gritted teeth as she clearly succeeded in giving him intense pleasure in return.

Sansa licked the underside of him curiously, and marvelled that she managed to make him shiver as he exhaled sharply. He loosened his grip on her hair to grab her hand, folding it around the stem of him so she could stroke him in addition, soon making small sounds escape his lips at every uneven exhale as he thrust slightly harder into her mouth, his hand back in her hair and tightening, the muscles in his stomach tense. She tried to increase the pace and tightened her hand around his manhood, not quite knowing if she was doing it right. He groaned deeply.

“Use your tongue,” he breathed raggedly. So Sansa flicked her tongue faster over the underside of him until a glance at his face told her he was an inch away from the edge, eyes gaining that glazed look he got right before he peaked. 

She let her lips slide up the length of him and licked his head again, tasting more salty fluid seeping from him before sliding hard down his shaft, pressing her lips together as he liked it when she tightened her hand. And remembered something else Randa had told her, sucking him gently as she had him deep in her mouth, drawing tight circles with her tongue. Sandor’s cock pulsed hard in reward, his whole body convulsing as his seed spurted hot and salty into her mouth. His ragged moan was so filled with pleasure and ecstasy that Sansa felt herself react with intense arousal, too, squirming between his long, muscular legs, but continued moving her lips and tongue over him until he stilled. She swallowed his seed as spitting was something she simply did not do, but found she actually kind of liked the taste of him anyway. _Randa would have toasted me for that thought and poor Septa Mordane would have fainted…_

Sandor lay flat out on his back with one muscular arm across his face, gasping for breath. Naked and his own kind of beautiful. Sansa snuggled up against him and started stroking him gently over his chest and stomach, feeling the faint sheen of sweat on her fingertips, kissing his shoulder as she traced his scars. He calmed down eventually, and put a heavy arm around her, embracing her tightly, his grey eyes looking deep into her own.

“That was bloody amazing,” he murmured hoarsely. Sansa smiled at him and stroked tightly over the muscles in his arm.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Sandor grinned ruefully at her and yawned. 

“Think it`s supposed to _me_ that should thank you, remember?” he muttered, and rubbed his tired eyes. 

Sansa chuckled and waited until he held her once more before she stroked up his arm, all the way up to his neck, watching how Sandor closed his eyes and in an odd way getting the same feeling as when patting Stranger in the beginning. Like she was domesticating some sort of half-wild animal… getting him used to being touched with care. Thinking that _that_ comparison couldn`t stand the light of the day, she put her arms around him just as they heard a strangled moan from the room beside them, swiftly followed by a deeper one, obviously trying to be silent and failing spectacularly.

Sandor opened his eyes and grinned at her, even if he looked exhausted, and was about to open his mouth, but Sansa covered his lips with her own, not wanting Brienne to be embarrassed, Jaime be damned. And the big brute she loved so fiercely seemed all too happy to just lie there, in a tight embrace, kissing her tenderly, like she was the most precious thing he`d ever come across.


	23. Light for the darkness within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: severe childhood trauma.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Krissy and Or_ryn who dived in from nowhere and showered me in fantastic reviews exactly when I needed it most. Thank you so much you wonderful women! I`ve been working so frustratingly much for these last weeks that your thoughts and praise were sorely needed to find inspiration to sit down and continue writing. <3 <3 <3
> 
> And Moony, my fabulous friend, fuck I needed that gift-fic of yours (North Winds blows) to get warm again after days freezing outdoors with snow to my knees! Thank you, too <3 <3 <3

Sandor woke feeling cold as seven icy hells, and no bloody wonder as it turned out Sansa had wrapped herself in the covers and turned, leaving him exposed to the air, naked as his nameday. The lodge smelt of roasting hare and he heard rustles from the next room. But Brienne had the watch, and Sandor would bloody well use his time off duty to its limits. Having a naked _lady_ next to him and all... if he could only get her a bit closer without the fucking fabric in between them and a bit more fabric _over_ him before he buggering froze to death... He tried to find a way to get her untangled without waking her, but grumblingly ended up tugging one end out from underneath her and just rolling her out of their covers. Sansa’s eyes sprung open and she stared at him in sleepy confusion for a moment before catching on as he placed the blankets over them both again.

“I`m sorry, did I take it all?” she murmured. “Gods, you`re cold.” She closed her eyes again and snuggled up against him, lifting her head so she could lie on his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Kissing his shoulder she started rubbing him warm, laying her leg over his thigh, and pressing her body towards him to give him her body-warmth. It felt fucking wonderful, the sensation just expanding as she began sliding her hand over his stomach after rubbing his arm and chest for a while, her fingers caressing him gently. 

Sandor had never been touched so much in his whole bloody life as he`d been these last days, except maybe as an infant... and the training-ground didn`t fucking count.... He`d never before realized how good it felt being touched this way, or known that he liked it at all for that matter. _Oh, hell... I`m being bloody_ cuddled _here, for fuck’s sake...That would have some buggering Gods laughing their heads off somewhere..._ It felt so bleeding intimate that it neared claustrophobic for an instant, as he didn`t quite know how to handle such intense _closeness._ But he settled on sighing deeply in defeat as her palm and fingertips made goose-bumps spread over his skin, sending ripples of pleasure through him, concluding exasperatedly that he had once and for all lost control over his own body.

Looking at Sansa’s beautiful face, her eyes closed but smiling slightly, Sandor wondered how in the seven hells she`d managed to get him on his back in this way. It wasn`t even just about being near her anymore, or wanting to fuck her, it felt more like he wasn`t complete without her, like not being close to her was like suddenly finding himself without his sword. He grinned wryly at the thought that he would probably end up on his back with his Little Bird sitting singing her pretty trills on his chest for the rest of his fucking life. _Not that that`s a bad thing…_

Jaime had said he was on his knees after the woman, and he couldn`t bloody deny that, now could he? Completely losing his head around Sansa as he was, finding himself wondering how it would have been to have her as his _wife,_ for fuck’s sake, always having scorned the thought of marriage before, as nobody in their right mind would marry their daughters to him anyway. But with Sansa, his insides turned into a longing chaos every fucking time he looked at her, and all his earlier resolutions that he wanted to be left alone evaporated like mist in the sun. The Lannister swords would have laughed themselves into early graves in more ways than one if they`d known. The infamously vicious Hound brought to his knees by a Little Bird... 

Sansa seemed to feel something similar, though... incredibly enough. Bloody hells, looking at him with so many promises in her Tully-blue eyes, heated glances and glowing words, touching him, kissing him, giving him this strange feeling of being... wanted on so many levels. _You. And Winterfell. And life, she said. Seven save me, she put me first..._ And in bed... so fucking curious and passionate that he felt swept away by every new thing they explored, feeling like it was the first time for him, too. 

In a way it bleeding was, he reluctantly admitted to himself if to no one else, as he`d never experienced the supposedly obligatory fumbling in dark corners with the kitchen girls as a squire. He`d just bought himself whores with what gold Ser Wadlan had drunkenly thrown at him for Sandor’s dogged efforts as a squire during Robert’s Rebellion, and jumped the whole preamble. 

It didn`t save him from all the other squires’ talk, though. Snot nosed little fuckers’ bleating about how bloody great it was getting a stupid wench giggling up against the wall. Fucking hell, he`d hated their glances and snide remarks, finding it fucking unbelievable that having their hands down a kitchen lass’s smallclothes could be better than being fucked out of your senses by an experienced whore. He`d ended up deliberately beating the worst of the bragging buggers into pulp in the training yard of Casterly Rock after having to listen to their swaggering about wet-fingered exploits for the nine-thousandth time. That had shut them up.

He`d known perfectly well that the silly, giggling wenches wouldn`t have wanted him to touch them anyway, that`s what the whores were for. Until he`d built himself a name that brought the women into his lap just to play with fire, at least... And by then he`d learned another way to dominate the arrogant bitches, turning them into gasping and moaning hussies the lot of them, seeing the incredulity and humiliation in their eyes as their bodies betrayed them, getting his release just to slap their arses and be done with both their attitude and their cunts afterwards. Bugger them all...

Sansa was the first woman he`d ever tried to _please._ And what a fucking reward that had been! He nearly felt guilty because he got off so bloody much on her reactions to his efforts. Her moans and aroused gaze had him panting like hell instantly, the way she arched made him want to roughly flip her on her back and fuck her hard, to slam her hips brutally towards him as he spilled his seed deep inside her. He was not a flaming idiot, though, he knew he needed to be gentle with her if he wanted her to keep her lustful spirit up, she _was_ a young maid after all. And broken women had never got him going, anyway... reminded him too much of his mother... _Fucking hell._ But keeping himself in check was nonetheless pure agony... and seven kinds of bliss at the same time. 

Sansa’s hand was stroking his stomach again and it felt so frustratingly good, made more so by her fingertips starting to caress lower and lower, changing the sensation. Sandor felt himself start to harden and stroked his fingers into her silky hair, feeling Sansa smiling against his neck when he moved slightly as arousal streamed through him, knowing his signs, obviously. 

“You like my hair, don`t you?” she murmured. He chuckled back at her, already hard and longing for her touch.

“I like your hands, too,” he answered a bit more hoarsely than usual as her fingertips played over his skin, down to his groin and touching the hair there, sending hot stabs of lust raining through him. He pulled her hard towards him and bucked his hips slightly, breathing unevenly into her hair as she gave him open mouthed kisses up his neck, arousal f lowing like a river through him, Sansa shifting so her cunt laid against his thigh and started moving up against him, wet for him. Her hot breath, lush mouth and soft tongue on his neck and ear having him groaning when she finally stroked a finger, feather-light, up the underside of his hard cock. _Fuck, she`s getting hold of things quickly._

Sandor rolled on top of her and started kissing her mouth hungrily, intense lust slamming through him when she spread her legs so he could lay between them, arching her firm young teats up to caress his chest with stiff, pink nipples, making him moan deeply in arousal as she kissed him heatedly back, her tongue sliding against his own driving him into a frenzy, her hands stroking his back tightly. He knew all too well that his cock was mere inches from her wet cunt, that he could just thrust up into her if he wanted to. And seven burning hells how he wanted to, his cock throbbing as he bucked his hips down against the bedroll to at least get _some_ friction – being so frustratingly in need of grabbing her hips and roughly pushing himself inside her, fucking her properly... or gently. Bloody hells. He needed to fuck her _gently_ until she was ready for more. Hellishly hard to remember sometimes...

But she hadn`t begged him yet, and in some bloody strange way the whole denial, waiting-in-bloody-agony situation, made him pant in heavy pulsing arousal just as much as his newfound surety that she _would_ beg him. Amazingly enough turning the fucking tide his way, as denying her in return had showed just how much she wanted him in the first place, setting him off like nothing else had done in his whole buggering life. 

It felt fucking _right_ this way, unbelievable enough, as she`d always been out of reach for him. First being a _child,_ for fuck’s sake, then by being Joffrey’s all too highborn wife-to-be, followed by being Tyrion’s wife, and then she`d fucking disappeared. And when he`d found her again, she`d just been too bloody good for him. But experiencing her lust and passion for him, his body, her want for his touch, being close to him, had Sandor running out of arguments. Seeing her intense frustration at being denied losing her maidenhead to him... Seven hells that memory would have him hard in an instant for the rest of his days...

He had just started kissing her neck in return when he heard the distinctly male footsteps of Jaime approaching the door. Annoyed that the bloody Lion should fuck things up exactly when Sansa wrapped her legs around him, moving her hips so he could feel the wetness from her cunt on his stomach, lust slamming through him like a punch as her hands pressed him tight towards her - Sandor opened his mouth to bark the bastard off to all seven hells at once. But Sansa bit his lower lip and grinned mischievously at him when Jaime knocked, pushing at him with slender arms so that he lay down on his back again.

“Clegane, don`t know what the fuck you`re doing in there, but I`ll be utterly graceful and inform you that the hares are roasted, and if you don`t squeeze your abnormally large body off of that pallet and through this door in mere minutes I`ll have eaten every scrap no matter what Brienne says about it,” Jaime said through the door, as Sansa’s lips closed around his cock. 

Sandor gasped despite himself, thrusting up into her fucking amazing warm mouth in instant response, her tongue sliding softly over him, inexperienced but so breathtakingly playfully, her hands closing around the stem of him. How in the seven hells could he reply anything coherent under such bloody magnificent circumstances?

“Good to know... sod off,” was all he managed, a bit too ragged, as he grabbed Sansa’s hair and fucked deeply into her mouth before he could control himself, exhaling heavily at the intense pleasure. She drew back sharply, but then seemed to concentrate on pleasing him as she moved gradually lower for every agonizingly delicious rise and fall of her head, pressure building in Sandor as his need surged hot and strong at the sight and feeling of her mouth tight around his cock, her tongue sliding softly back and forth right at the underside of the head of him, making him groan quietly through gritted teeth as she stirred him into a pulsing need for release.

“Right... That`s frighteningly polite coming from you, dog,” Jaime said, voice suddenly filled with mirth. “My lady, if you would care to leave our mighty warrior capable of thinking at all, I`ll be most grateful. We might need him able to form simple sentences and to lift his sword both left and right later on,” the bugger positively sniggered before his footsteps retreated from the door.

Sansa blushed like a sunset, her cheeks competing with her auburn tresses, but flashed Sandor a quick smile over his cock, nearly looking proud of all insane things, before licking the head of him slowly, making him writhe in need, enthralled at the sight of her lush lips kissing his manhood wetly, sliding over him and sucking him gently, pleasure tingling so bloody intensely though his entire being.

“How fast can you release?” she whispered breathlessly to him. “We can`t let a cheeky Lannister bastard eat our hares, you know.” Her eyes glittered Tully-blue and her face was so incredibly beautiful that it nearly hurt to look directly at her. 

“Seven hells, Little Bird,” he groaned and reached out for her, she smiled so brilliantly at him that he reluctantly gave up on spilling his seed in her mouth again _\- she fucking swallowed! –_ and dragged her down on top of him, her hands stroking over his body, squeezing his upper arms, her eyes brimming with arousal and bloody tenderness when she kissed him softly, stroking his hair away from the ruin of his face. “If this is a bleeding contest I`ll race you,” Sandor murmured hoarsely, caressing her teats, sliding his thumbs over her nipples and feeling his body hum in resonating pleasure as she moaned softly. He slid his hand over her arse and stroked her cunt from behind as she spread her legs wide for him and tilted her hips so he could reach her easily, his Little Bird gasping so prettily in pleasure when he touched her wetness. Bloody hells, she unwittingly knew how to have a man at the fucking brink in no time.

“Could... maybe you could...” she started in a whisper, and hid her face in his neck.

“What?” he murmured dazedly back, moving his fingers lightly over her nub, feeling his cock throb as she moved her hips rhythmically against his hand, fisting her hair in the other and gently pulled her head up so he could see her face.

“Maybe you could... stroke yourself, you know... against me?” she half whispered half moaned, cheeks red but with pure desire in her Tully-blue eyes, making him groan desperately in return, her combination of guts and innocence so incredibly arousing.

Sandor shifted and closed his hand around his cock instead, obedient as hell, his free hand stroking her nipple as he slid the head of his cock over her opening and started stroking himself against her nub, marvelling at how much better it felt that way. Sansa moaned softly again, her arms tightening around his neck and shoulder, her hips moving in pace with him. It felt surprisingly good, her naked body laying on top of him like this, moving so fucking alluringly against his cock, making pleasure vibrate strongly through his whole body. He got a new hold of her hair and put his arm around her waist, pressing her stomach hard down on his own, their equally rapid breathing stirring him up even more as she whimpered and moved quicker, increasing the pace and pushing him towards the edge as she started kissing his neck, biting him gently.

“More, harder,” she whispered breathlessly, and rocked her hips on top of him. Sandor groaned in desperate need and tried hard not to release yet as he increased the motion, pressing himself towards her nub as her whimpers became high-pitched. Holding back his own release by a hair when her breath caught and she peaked magnificently, moaning soundlessly and squirming in pleasure on top of him, her teats pressed towards his chest, her teeth biting hard down on his shoulder. Sandor exhaled raggedly, his hand stroking fast and hard up and down his member, bucking his hips erratically as he felt how he the pressure in his throbbing cock was expanding into bliss. Sansa lifted her head and looked at him as she tilted her hips, letting him feel her wet warm opening caressing the head of his cock, pushing him right over every fucking limit of control.

“Tonight,” she whispered against his lips, lowering her cunt down on him as Sandor exploded into release, the press yielding enough for him to slide an inch inside her, enough for him to feel her cunt around the head of his already pulsing cock, and managed desperately to close his hand around the top of him and physically block himself from just shoving his cock deep inside her as his seed spurted out of him, _into_ her. The realization made him pulse twice as hard, his body convulsing in massive waves of pleasure as he groaned helplessly into her mouth, pressing her hard towards him with his free arm, peaking so high that he completely lost his senses for a long time.

“Bloody hells, Little Bird!” he finally rasped, stroking her back and feeling her arms tighten around him, before turning them both onto their sides. “If you`d been any other woman I`d have pushed myself so hard into you, you`d have fucking tasted me.” 

Sansa just looked at him and smiled sweetly. Her arms tightening hard around his neck, as she locked her beautiful eyes to his own. “I know,” she whispered and kissed him softly, making his insides ache, a whirlwind of something warm and bloody tender swirling high in his chest. “If you`d been any other man, I would have been sleeping back to back with Brienne instead of doing anything remotely like this... _Sandor...”_ The blissful chaos in him surged, making him try and fail to curse himself for the hold she had on him, dimly having a queer feeling that a part of her sentence was missing. He wondered dimly about that until he saw his seed on her thighs, a pang of resonating pleasure slamming through him, steering all his thoughts over to the image of his cock buried deep in her tight cunt when evening came. 

They cleaned up and dressed in a hurry, Sansa doing her best to brush out her tangled hair before starting on braiding it over her shoulder as they walked into the next room. Brienne and Jaime were eating hare and drinking water in lack of wine, the smell making Sandor’s stomach rumble loudly. Jaime grinned at him like a cat finding four fat mice in a bucket, and Sandor found himself grinning widely back, no matter how foolish it felt, fucking unable to suppress the pride welling up in him at emerging from a bedchamber with such a beauty, knowing the Lion knew she wanted _him._

Taking a seat by the fire he wrenched off a juicy hare leg and gave it to Sansa, her eyes meeting his, her fingers stroking his hand lightly as she took the meat, murmuring ‘thank you’ and blushing prettily, before he helped himself. 

Jaime’s green eyes followed his movements with mirthful interest and met his gaze, raising an eyebrow. “Such impeccable behaviour today, Clegane? Still feeling as honourable as me?”

“Like hell,” he grinned ruefully in return. “For now.” _Until tonight at least!_ Sandor couldn`t remember the last time he`d looked forward to something like this... without bitterness of any kind into the bargain, not like looking forward to staring into Gregor’s dead eyes after cutting his head off. _At least he`s dead..._ He couldn`t remember ever feeling like this before, just the thought of _finally_ being allowed to fuck Sansa had him bloody soaring like a boy before his nameday. The woman in question looked quizzically at him and exchanged a glance with Brienne, a slow grin spreading over his Little Bird’s beautiful face, making Brienne blush for some bizarre reason.

They ate in quiet for a while, enjoying the treat of eating something other than dried meat, stale bread and hard cheese. If they`d had wine it would have been a fucking feast. But Sansa had started nagging about his drinking in King’s Landing yesterday, and she`d been anxious at the inn, too. Might not be so strange after the drinking-night before that last time, though... he wasn`t exactly known to behave in any setting, was he? Least of all when properly drunk... Fuck, he`d said things best left unsaid to her time and again. Memories of contemptuous rage and the drunken need to just frighten her to shut the fuck up and _look_ at him came to mind, but he cringed just as much inwardly at soberly telling her that she made him able to sleep, gave him peace. _Bloody hells..._

It took a moment to realise that Brienne was talking to him, franticly trying to inform him that she`d done her duty most profoundly while the others had slept. Trying to excuse her finding her pleasure with Jaime first, he supposed, and grinned at her struggles.

“...and I`ve given the horses oats, fresh branches and winter-grass, kept my watch, of course, the forest seems quiet. Yes, and I`ve roasted the hares and melted more water, and oiled all our leather. And checked our armour for rust,” she concluded, looking flustered. 

“What about my boots, then?” he rasped and took a deep swallow of water. She looked dumbfounded at him.

“Well, no, because they were... you know... _in there,_ and you were... I mean...” she stuttered, making Jaime laugh and Sansa smile, shaking her pretty head at him.

“Relax, you`re a warrior, not a scullion, I`m joking,” he grinned at the large wench. “Fuck me, you need some backbone on such matters before we reach any other buggers in armour, flinging their sers in your face. Look them straight in their eyes and tell them to bugger the hell off if they think to order you around. Or you`ll bloody well beat them bloody, and we`ll help you smash knights gladly, won`t we Lion?”

Jaime flashed his even teeth and cracked his knuckles. “Just whistle and we`ll make life miserable for them, Brienne, but you`ll probably manage pretty well on your own. I`m still considering knighting you, you know.”

Brienne looked like she had fallen from the moon in pure gratitude for the useless compliment. _Bloody hell, a female knight for true? And she`ll probably raise the standard, that`s the worst part. Blasted rats, the lot of them..._

“Thank you,” she mumbled to them both, and then fled out the door to continue her watch or just to escape the attention, more like it. But Sansa smiled at him when she buckled his armour on, eyes glittering with approval and so much more.

Walking outside after packing up, he left Sansa to help Jaime with _his_ armour, not feeling jealous at all, which was strange. He brooded a bit on why he didn`t felt like hitting someone when his beautiful Little Bird had her hands on a handsome knight, and concluded to his own astonishment that she`d told him again and again how much she cared for him, how... what..? _amazingly delicious_ she found him. _Seven hells, she`s insane..._ that he actually felt confident that she was... his. Wanted _him._ Not her storybook knight, anymore. _Bugger me..._ Completely kicking his legs out from underneath him again, his arse should be properly sore by now...

Glancing back at the lodge, he went over to Stranger and rubbed his neck, still feeling dazed at all the arcane ways of Little Birds, trying to find something more comprehensible to hang his thoughts on. Settling for the black courser rubbing his handsome head against Sandor’s shoulder. He was fucking proud of owning this magnificent stallion, not giving a damn about his bad temper. They were equally mean-spirited, wasn`t that what Sansa had flung at him once? Maybe that offset them towards each other or something... Stranger had never balked at doing what was asked of him when it counted, and Sandor had found himself more and more satisfied with his impressive warhorse the longer he owned him. 

Fuck, if Sandor had broken during the Battle of the Blackwater, Stranger surely hadn`t. Cantering up gangplanks and wreaking havoc on ship-decks as well as on the muddy ground, giving everything as long as Sandor had kept asking. Seven hells what a bloody thrill it`d been until the Imp set the whole fucking harbour aflame in green fire... that couldn`t be smothered... Fighting seven fiery green hells at once as he`d slaughtered men for a nasty brat with a crown too big for him, ending up with a nauseous feeling of fighting on that side of the river only to protect a Little Bird from being raped to pieces, her broken corpse trampled in the hallways of the Red Keep if Stannis’s men made it through. His own memories from the sack of King’s Landing during Robert’s rebellion were all too vivid, his own actions swiping away any pretty notions of how men behave in such circumstances. And with that in mind he`d fought for the wrong reasons, on the wrong side, fucking over all previous loyalties. 

Sandor had kept unleashing all the violence bottled up within, sending his men into their worst nightmare, raging with the frenzy only battle could release in him, not able even to hear himself roar with his blood rushing like seven bloody waterfalls in his ears, frustration howling in him as he started questioning more and more what the fuck he was doing. He`d lived a life based on loyalty to the masters that had been his bloody safe haven from the hell he`d grown up in, building a career on his fighting skills, his size and rapidly growing horrible reputation, with a face to match. After a while he`d simply stopped bloody caring what was asked of him, in a strange way reveling in the feeling of control when kicking down his own bile in the beginning, closing off. He`d owed the Lannisters what his shitty life was worth for taking him in, was given a place of feared respect, was paid generously and could do as he pleased. The only thing asked in return was for him to inflict terror in the heart of Lannister enemies. Being a horrifying weapon. Fighting like there was no tomorrow because, for him, there wasn`t. 

But as he felt his body tire after hours in mud, blood and gore, the fucking terrifying wildfire spreading, killing his men, taking down his cavalry, fear creeping into him for the first time he could remember in battle, his killing-frenzy retreating and left him all too aware of how exhausted he was, knowing the dulling of his reflexes was likely to send him to his death burning green instead of just risking ending his wretched life with a spear through his chest... And then the blasted little bag of shit had waddled into view... and so much wine had followed and... _the Mother’s hymn! Seven buggering hells..._

He was so far gone in his dark brooding that he actually jumped when he suddenly felt a hand on his back, spinning around and staring at Sansa’s startled expression, feeling the strange effect she had on him, seeing her surprise turn to concerned... fondness. Or... _love._ Shocked by his own conclusion Sandor just looked transfixed down on her, meeting her eyes as she raised a hand and stroked over his scarred cheek, for once not making him all too aware of the contrast between his ruined face and her slim, soft hand. Finding himself slowly leaning into her touch instead. He reached out and dragged her towards him, feeling the confusing chaos within him spin as his arms went around her, lowering his head down towards her.

“I _need_ you,” he muttered hoarsely against her lips, feeling every hair on his body stand on end at that admission, at what it implied. Sansa brushed her lush mouth against his scarred lips.

“Sandor...” she whispered back, his name on her lips feeling like a fucking caress. Only she ever called him by his first name at all, her eyes soft and shining with all that he tried to tell her. “I need you, too.” 

She kissed him so achingly soft and tenderly, her hands stroking up his neck, gently, soothingly, drowning him in a deep overwhelming feeling of... being cared for. Like she righted all the wrongs in him, wiped out his pitch-black life and reputation, gently shoving all his grim churning sins out of his soul and bleached his scars just by her touch and kiss. _Do you love me, Little Bird?_ Was this what being loved felt like? Frustratingly enough it only made a strange kind of grief well up in him, knowing they could never continue as they`d done these last days, knowing he may be allowed into her bed and stand by her side... but never the way he realised more and more that he really wanted to. Needed to. _What would you say, Sansa, if you knew I`m fucking regretting my low birth for the first time of my life... for you._

They stood in their own little world of sore and frustrated tenderness, Sandor trying not to crush her against his armour as his arms tightened around her, her hands caressing him as their lips moved against each other, the chaos that he felt for her whirling restlessly, the need for being close to her completely putting him off his guard, making him notice Brienne and Jaime’s footsteps a moment too late as they walked around the corner of the lodge.

“Ah, right... lovebirds, we need to get going, it`s almost noon,” Jaime said quietly, sounding studiously careful as he walked over to where Honour was tethered, Brienne trying to make herself small in his wake, uncomfortable as hell. Sansa hadn`t heard them approach at all, obviously, as she`d looked surprised at him when he broke the kiss in a hurry, if not the embrace, but she was now blushing scarlet. 

Sandor glanced at the interrupting bugger, ready to unleash several stinging replies, but saw sympathy of all insane things, painted over the bastards knightly features, quickly concealed in flashing a grin. Made sense though, the Lion wasn`t stupid. Jaime _would_ know, now wouldn`t he? How it`d felt being... like _this_ over a woman, hiding your embraces, to never be able to live the way he`d wanted either... with Cersei... sick as it`d been... 

The two of them parted reluctantly, Sansa’s fingers caressing his skin even as she let go, sliding her hands down his neck, her eyes locked to his, trapping him. Fucking hell he was in deep water here... 

They saddled and mounted their horses, Sandor clicking his tongue at Stranger, who obediently started eagerly forwards, ears topped and neck arched, blowing through his nose and rumbled a deep whinny to Daisy, dancing sideways as he showed off how impressive he was. _Fucking hell, that`s how we male idiots end up behaving no matter breed..._ Sandor let him dance, steering him with his legs and letting his reins be as still as possible, his own body relaxed as Stranger trotted onward down the path with high lifts of his legs, Sandor following his movements as naturally as breathing after a life in the saddle. Trouble was that Daisy looked quite interested in return and Honour blew himself up to twice his size at Stranger’s advances on his mare.

“Just what we bloody need, a mare in heat between the picket lines...” Sandor grumbled in the general direction of Jaime.

“Well, at least all our females go into heat at the same time,” the Lion responded suspiciously innocently, making Sandor bark a laugh and Brienne and Sansa look outraged at them both.

“Make sure you don`t get confused and end up in a tent with Daisy tonight then, Sandor,” Sansa said, putting on a sweet smile, making Jaime snort. Sandor just grinned at her, following up their private joke.

“Sure it will be confusion, Little Bird? Daisy sure as hell has a lovely arse,” he rasped, pretending to leer at Brienne’s mount. Sansa laughed her clear, wonderful laugh at him, making him grin like an idiot back at her, and Brienne looked a mixture of worried and struggling not to smile, as if she knew it was funny, just couldn`t quite figure out why. 

The terrain evened out into the riverlands, the large trunks of trees hundreds of years old towering up to spread their massive branches out high above them, looking twice as large after the gnarled trees of the mountains. The sun was shining through their snow-covered branches as if to catch up after all the snow of the last few days, worrying enough as the brilliant light made it all too easy to spot them if someone was following. Sandor could almost _feel_ sharp eyes finding the sun glinting off their armour, see their movement over ridges where they couldn`t follow the thickets.

Sansa soon ended up riding next to Brienne, lagging behind and shushing Jaime away with some polite nonsense, the Lion cantering forwards to Sandor looking like he was trying hard not to laugh. 

“We`re banished from the rear, Clegane, we`re male!” he said in a voice thick with mirth. 

“What the fuck is she up to now?” Sandor rasped as he turned around in the saddle to get a closer look at his unruly squire before she tried to break her neck again. She`d nearly frightened him into a bloody fit tumbling down that slope... It looked peaceful enough, though, the women leaning towards each other and talking in quiet voices... wait, in bloody whispers more like it, and both of them red as two sunsets! “Seven bleeding hells Lion, are they talking about _us?”_ he groaned in surprise and irritation. Jaime could obviously not hold it in anymore and laughed out loud, earning Sandor two sets of arresting glares as Sansa and Brienne glanced forwards and saw him looking. 

“I would believe so, yes, women talk of such things. And wipe off that scowl, dog, you don`t look any prettier for it. Let them talk, compare notes or some such, exchange ideas! After having to listen to _my lady_ moan her pleasures with you for days, I presume that she`s singing your praises right now. Fuck me, Clegane, it`s brilliant!” the cheeky bastard replied, looking confident as fuck.

Come to think about it, it might not be so bad... “If they can, so can we, Lion,” he grumbled. “How`s Brienne between the sheets, then? Broken any of your ribs yet?” he asked, speaking in the usual rough way of exchanging information about willing wenches.

Jaime grinned in a steely sort of way, green eyes hard. “No, she has not. Do you really want to know? Because if you make her feel bad about anything I tell you, I`ll make you pay for the rest of your life, understood?” 

Sandor showed his teeth in return. “What in seven hells got your tail so bushy, you buggering git?” he replied in a low growl. Something in Jaime’s eyes changed and mirth crept into them again.

“Well, as you have absolutely no comprehension of friendship, only loyalty – which is a good quality, I`ll admit - I thought it best to state the rules beforehand,” he smiled wryly. 

Sandor watched the man impassively, not knowing what the fuck the Lion wanted. Jaime had always been an obnoxious cock, Tywin Lannister’s firstborn son, stuffed with gold, fancy armour and flashy horses. They`d grown up flinging abuses to and fro, sparring and trying to fucking kill each other in the training yard, being bloody outstanding fighters the both of them. With the one exception that Sandor was too lowborn to _really_ injure the insolent bugger, or Tywin would have had him in the dungeons in a heartbeat. 

Fighting side by side in countless raids, battles and skirmishes of every sort did nothing to lessen the differences in their status. It had been so bloody frustrating to bend his stiff neck at Jaime, the new fucking ‘sword of the morning,’ when never, _never_ being able to take him on for true, jousting rules be damned, that Sandor felt irritation flare at the mere memory. 

And here the bastard came flinging a friendship in Sandor’s face, all these years later. Admittedly after a pretty long journey together on new terms, a hand less and with his pride scratched, something sober in his green eyes that had never been there before, actually carrying responsibility and for the first time in his life seemingly trying to do his duty out of conscience, but... 

“So what the fuck do you see in her then?” he rasped annoyed. “She`s less of a pain in the arse than most women and she fights better than most knights, but bloody hell, Jaime, she`s nearly as large as me!” The Lion grinned widely and then looked forward as he spoke in a low voice, Honour finding his way underneath him.

“She is, yes. Brienne`s also everything Cersei`s not. Large and not pretty, I admit. But also sweet, honest, straightforward in her ways... innocent. I even love her naivety - she`s no manipulative bitch,” he concluded bitterly, glancing at Sandor. “She`s not stupid either, just... quiet, turning things over in her head before making a statement. And her body`s not ugly, only different. Took a while to see it, though, but she`s lean and fit, strong, and out of her clothes and armour she`s definitely female.” Sandor snorted at that, but threw Brienne a searching glance and could see some of what Jaime was talking about. Maybe. If mightily drunk. His eyes were drawn to Sansa riding by her side and his heart instantly skipped a beat. _Fuck me, she`s beautiful._

Turning forwards before she could notice him staring at her, the Lion was looking sideways at him in the sunlight coming in stripes through the branches far above them, something akin to compassion in his eyes. 

“As I know quite a lot about inappropriate relationships, I have to ask… are you in love with her, Clegane?” he said carefully. Out of bloody nowhere.

Sandor felt struck between his eyes. It was one thing circling around it in his own mind, but ‘love’ was not a word he even associated with himself, it felt foreign, fucking unnerving. _But I did wonder if Sansa loved me… and…_ He grunted something incoherently in a sudden lack of swearwords and found himself fiddling with his reins, annoying himself to pieces. Wondering why _this_ would feel so invasive when Jaime probably had seen him fuck women countless of times in the shameless way of whoring and wenching soldiers during seventeen years’ of service. The Lion’s green gaze was steady on his own as he tilted his head, grinning wryly at him. 

“The air between you two is thick enough to serve as stew, and you have _not_ fucked the beautiful maid that looks moon-eyed at you, kisses you so thoroughly that you obviously lose your instincts, and keeps inviting you to her bed. Or letting you bloody carry her to it. You are so far gone, Clegane,” the sod said, his grin changing, green eyes mirthful but honest. Trying to be his friend.

“How the fuck should _I_ know anything about love,” Sandor growled in return, feeling so utterly exposed that he wanted to murder the man just for getting this out of him. Jaime just smiled slightly at him, the compassion frustratingly clear in his eyes.

“Even a brutish dog like you has a heart, apparently. And you know you love a woman, Clegane, when it feels like life is missing its central piece without her,” Jaime answered in a matter of fact way, shrugging his shoulders at Sandor’s scowl. “But I think you know that perfectly well already, you`re just too stubborn and set in your bitter, bad-tempered ways to take it in.” The Lion pierced him with his eyes. “And now I`ll leave you alone to seethe on the matter in peace instead of reaching for your weapons. Thank the Gods we don`t have wine with us. Really, Clegane, you`re surprisingly easy to read sometimes.” 

And then the buggering shit wheeled Honour around and trotted back to Brienne, leaving Sandor fuming with his hand on his swordhilt, longing for wine, and having the most frustrating feeling that the bastard was completely in the right again.

So he brooded sullenly on the matter for hours, riding through deep woods, the undergrowth thinning as the trees around them grew larger, making it easier for the horses to make good time, the snow lying like a blanket over everything, but in a much thinner layer than in the mountains. Sansa might have been told to leave him alone for now, and Sandor was secretly grateful for the gesture as he suddenly found himself blowing dust off so much shit he would rather have left alone at the back of his mind. And yet, it was only the tip of the iceberg…

How _could_ he know anything of love, when all his childhood horrors swirled like a nauseating maelstrom in his depths? No mother’s love could save any of them, and that was all the love that had ever been there. His rage built like a storm just by thinking of it. Small, fluttering memories of his mother’s voice singing for him, stroking his hair, disappeared in her thin, sore crying, memories of when his fondness for her turned to despair at her powerlessness, that she gave up, stopped washing her long hair, stopped trying to protect them. Stopped caring that he tried to protect _her._ And the _fucking_ crying, he _hated_ bloody women’s crying. 

Never knowing what mood he would be in, his son of a bitch fucking useless arse of a _father,_ fuck him through all the seven hells. When Sandor one day ended up in the _real_ hells with him, he would beat the shit out of him over and over again through all of eternity. Nobody was safe at their keep a long time before Gregor’s reign started, Alida screaming like mad as their father raped her before her tenth nameday, sobbing for him to stop, his own howls ringing in his ears when he could do nothing to help her, Gregor holding him down, grinning. Nobody was safe, not household guards, servants, the hellish bastard’s own wife - his fucking _lady_ \- or their children. And mother just left them to this. 

The taste of bile in his mouth when finding his mother’s corps hanging from the roof beam in her chambers would never completely leave him. Seeing her swollen, black face and the way she was swinging gently in the breeze from the open window, the stool not even turned over. She could have put her feet on it if she`d wanted. And he couldn`t even tell his father in fucking fear of what the madman would bloody do... So he`d ended up sitting balled up in his rooms, knowing his mother hung dead two floors above him, waiting for someone to notice, forced to be there when it was discovered or he would`ve been in deep shit for bloody _fleeing._ Fuck he`d been so angry for her leaving them, so angry for her useless crying when alive, so angry for his father beating her until she lost the life in her eyes along with her teeth, so angry for nobody defending him, so angry for all the times he`d had a bloody nose, bleeding mouth, cuts to his head, angry for her screams for help when he couldn`t help her, angry for nobody listening, angry for everything. 

And when both mother and Alida were gone, Sandor’s face a ruin, his father dying by Gregor’s hand, just creating a new lord of bloody terror even more overwhelming than the man that had turned his whole life into a living hell from the cradle and up... Being a Lannister dog had been the closest thing to safety he`d ever experienced as a lad. Nothing could ever frighten him again after surviving all that, and becoming the Hound had protected him from feeling any more shit, building up such a wall of fear in all the fuckers out there that only contempt and bitterness and pure rage remained. His brother was a Lannister bannerman, though, so the whole fucking circle had turned once more, except Sandor hadn`t been a brat anymore... but where the fuck had love ever appeared in his wretched life? He wondered if Jaime would have been quite so cocky if he`d known the full extent of Sandor’s lack of it. Until now, perhaps... 

They were descending over a ridge when Brienne rode up to him, grinned and pointed. Studying the landscape as they rode out on the end he saw it, too. _Fucking hell, the wench has sharp eyes..._ Sansa rode up on his side, concern in her eyes, but smiling her beautiful smile at him as she spotted what they`d already seen; the trident. Glittering through the trees half a day’s ride away, less if they pushed their mounts. Lush forestland with lots of prey, easier to lose any pursuers for a man that knew his way in the woods. 

“Marvellous Brienne! Why didn`t you tell me your great-grandmother was a fucking owl?” Jaime exclaimed between them. “Explains your size if you were hatched instead of born! Do giants hatch? Dragons do, at least...” 

Brienne grabbed his pauldron and shook the laughing Lion roughly in his saddle, instantly giving Honour leave to flirt with Daisy, nuzzling her neck and showing off. Jaime reined in and quickly snaked his right arm around Brienne’s waist, dragging her over towards him, making her squeal until the Lion silenced her with a quick kiss, before retreating into a safe distance flashing a grin at the flustered maid of Tarth. But somewhere the rudeness disappeared from his smile and he looked just like any other lovesick fool. _Just like I do when Sansa`s looking at me, probably... Bloody hells... maybe there`s hope for me after all..._

Sandor exchanged a glance with his Little Bird and she grinned mischievously at him, Brienne’s squeal reminding him of how _Sansa_ had squealed when Sandor had thrown her over his shoulder, how she`d set him off like hell by inviting him to chase her down in the first place, triggering all his huntsman’s instincts. Fuck he`d been so hard when carrying her into the lodge and she`d been all over him at once... _but that`s pure desire..._

He looked sideways at her again as Jaime nudged Honour up behind him and Stranger, trying to avoid Brienne’s revenge, and saw how Sansa’s long braid glistened red, gold and copper in the sun, the deep auburn of her hair giving it a colour that nothing else could compare too, the tresses blowing slightly around her face from under her cap. And concluded that being lost in her _might_ possibly be the same fucking thing as being in love. 

She sat smiling at the scenery, so much more relaxed on Guardians back, hands still and her long legs casually down his sides instead of clinging to him with her knees, her heels too high like she had done in the beginning of their journey. She seemed to have melted together with her mount and absorbed everything he`d tried to teach her to become a better rider, but also taken in everything from unarmed combat to skinning hares. She saw him watching and turned to him, smoothly asking Guardian to move closer with small movements of her hands and legs.

“What are you thinking on?” she grinned at him, obviously bursting with joy that they seemed to be nearing civilization once more, and everything that meant for her cause. 

“That you would`ve been a bloody good squire, Little Bird,” he rasped, feeling strangely lightheaded after all his dark thoughts during the afternoon’s ride, like her clear, pure joy expanded into him as well. No matter what limits would be imposed on their relationship later on, right now it felt like his foggy, black memories were someone else’s, her brilliant gaze on him soothing his pain. _Fucking hell. Is this... love, then?_ Sansa smiled up at him like he`d given her the greatest of compliments and he completely lost his head and bent down to kiss her, needing her... and bugger him, might be needing meant loving, too _\- blast Jaime’s levelheadedness -_ finding himself not giving a shit if it was bloody proper or not, not even being sure if he meant kissing her or loving her.

“Clegane, fuck – listen!” Jaime wrenched him around by his shoulder and was about to receive a punch in the face before Sandor heard it too. Faint barks. Behind them. From several packs.


	24. Fly Fast, Little Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely reviews and your patience <3

Fucking hell! Stranger surged forward, feeling his rider’s sudden explosive energy, down the slope and out of sight. Sandor heard the other mounts cantering behind him, crashing through the undergrowth, his eyes searching for a path, trying to find the easiest way through the never-ending forests of the riverlands. Bloody, buggering, fucking unbelievable shit for luck, he`d just _known,_ hadn`t he? _Knew there were hounds into the blasted bargain._

Quick thinking mapped out their situation. They had the road up the mountains to the north, Saltpans straight forwards, south. _Fuck, need to avoid that bloody bear-trap, at least… won`t be forgiven there no matter what some bloody septons have to say about it…_ Brienne, Jaime and himself had needed two extra days to go around the whole area on their way to Gulltown. They needed to keep west, then, get lost in the woods or disappear in the crowds in Lord Harroway’s town. Where the buggers came from in the first place… _What the fuck has happened to Littlefinger, blasted little shit of a bloody whoremonger?_ They needed information. They needed a town. _We need Elder Brother…_

But that would be far too risky with hounds and enemies on their heels. Couldn`t risk dragging armed men onto the Quiet Isle, he had _some_ sense of gratitude after all, even being the honourless dog that he was. Still. Fighting for Sansa because she was his Little Bird. _Bloody hells._ He would have fought for her on those terms alone, his loyalty had been hers for a long time now, but it didn`t exactly make it better that she also held him and kissed him and _loved_ him, for fuck’s sake. Ser Barristan fucking Selmy would have curled up in the fetal position and wept blood for such flimsy reasons. _Imagine putting_ me _in the old bugger’s place… fuck you, Joffrey…_

Tightening his thighs to make Stranger slow down and sit back on his hocks, turning to Sansa as the two others knew the drill as well as he did, Sandor felt his blood rushing in his veins, his senses sharpened.

“We need to be bleeding quick about this, try to disappear like fucking smoke between their fingers. They`ve got their dogs, but we`ve surely got better horses, and if we push like fuck now we have a fair chance of reaching their bloody hometown and find out if the Blackfish ended up in a net after all.” He saw how Sansa’s eyes were wide with fear, but her back was straight, and she had a stubborn set to her mouth that looked a spick image of Ned Stark when he`d been in his most unyielding mood as Hand of the King. Sitting elegantly on Guardian’s back, being her father’s daughter, heiress of the blood of the old Kings of Winter. Lady Stark. _And she fucking wants_ me. _Crazy bird…_ “We`ve been eating well and so have our horses. We`re on the downside on sleep, but so are the buggers behind us if they`ve managed to sniff us out this quickly,” Sandor found himself saying, trying to fucking comfort her. He, who used to get squires to piss their breeches before their first fights just to be able to sneer insults at them for the rest of their fucking lives... what had bloody happened to him? _Fell in love, that`s bloody well it…_

Stranger was trotting on the spot and snorting impatiently to be let loose, so Sandor just exchanged a steely glance with Jaime, nodded when he saw Brienne’s completely expressionless face, hard as hell that woman, and wheeled his faithful mount down a deer-path, hoping it wouldn`t end in a cliff or something worse. Stranger threw himself forward, annoyed that he wasn`t allowed to run flat out through the woods, never mind the danger of breaking all his legs. Blast, the horse had a point, though. The snow padded the rocks and logs, the undergrowth hinting at ravines, the evenly spaced trees giving Sandor leave to increase the pace, brushing twigs and thin branches aside as he rode, jumping fallen trunks where possible, glancing behind to see if Sansa was keeping up. 

She was. Arse where it should be, high in the air, standing balanced in her stirrups with determination painted over her beautiful features, red braid flying behind her as she let Guardian do his job. Fucking worth every golden dragon, that horse.

So Sandor concentrated on ploughing on in front, grateful as fuck for the lesser depth of the snow here, but still too conscious about the bloody unmistakable tracks four mounts would make, showing their direction straight as a bleeding arrow. But they wouldn`t have a chance in any of the seven hells to confuse the hounds anyway, of course, unless a fucking river appeared out of flaming nowhere – and even then it was limited for how long horses could trot with icy water to their knees in winter. 

Using his weight and the pressure of his legs, the reins laying lightly against Stranger’s neck, Sandor steered the excited horse underneath him around rocks and trees with massive branches too low to get underneath. Trotting around a mire, lying treacherous beneath the snow if you didn`t know the signs of the trees leaning slightly in, the feathered ends of long bog grasses poking up at the deep side, Sandor reflected that they might consider splitting up. The hoof-tracks from dividing them into three parties would make a bloody mess all the way to the Trident for their followers. But bugger him, the risk was too great, better try to fade out in front of their pursuers – hopefully being impossible to catch up with once they reached decent roads.

After a couple of hours of trotting and cantering on and off like that to gain a better lead on the bastards following them, Sandor ordered everyone to the ground in the light of the setting sun. Running in a line before their horses into the night, humans and mounts alike were panting with the strain, their breath misting, but not a complaint was offered among them. Stranger eventually started snorting behind him for every step, nostrils wide and white foam gathering under the leather of his bridle, on his neck and down his legs. Sandor felt like snorting, too, his hair glued to his scalp by sweat, his legs burning, his sword starting to drag on his left side, the swordbelt digging into his hip on his right. But that was part of his fucking trade after all, this was what soldiering was mostly about, marching at a high pace often required running on and off for hours to reach a pass or a valley before your enemy, to surprise, shift positions or retreat like hell when necessary. Being cavalry since he should have been knighted, he`d nonetheless been on foot in enough battles to respect good infantry. He was more concerned about the redheaded Stark breathing hard behind Stranger.

Bloody hell, he`d never believed her this tough. On Quiet Isle he`d thought her likely to be as whining as noblewomen tended to be on journeys like this, remembering her from the kingsroad, being frightened shitless at a fucking minimum. But that had been a bloody poor judgment of character, now hadn`t it? He`d known all along, deep down, that she was worth more than all the Lannisters together. Why else had he found her so fascinating? She`d stuck it all out in King’s Landing as a flimsy little child with her head full of stories, had been coldblooded enough to fool Petyr Baelish, brave enough to look Sandor straight in the face and flip him on his back, so why the fuck shouldn`t she grit her pretty teeth and endure some more pain? 

They`d had to follow a cleft in the hillside east twice before finding somewhere passable to cross, but they were well and good into the riverlands now, and signs of human habitation started coming more and more frequently. A rack of timber stored for some hunter’s party before the war was decaying under the snow, branches cut off to ease the passage as various deer paths evolved into a proper path. Eventually showing signs of being maintained, rocks cleared, the path built up where necessary, trees cut down, well used resting places starting to appear. 

They mounted their increasingly tired horses in the moonlight when they finally found a cart-road of the rocky, bumpy - and in summertime probably muddy as hell – type. Shit to run on, but a fucking relief to follow, as Sandor knew it would improve somewhere - giving them a chance to outrun the bloody bastards. They`d heard the hounds’ faint barking several times during their rapid trip through the woods, but it was bloody difficult to judge the distance, if they`d gained or lost ground behind them. Unfortunately after half the night on shitty peasants’ cart-roads, the barking started again. Much nearer. And to their right. _North-west._

“Bloody, fucking hells, Lion!” Sandor tightened his hands on the reins, moving his weight back and feeling Stranger more or less falling into a halt, grateful for a pause. 

“Marvellous!” Jaime sighed, golden hair dripping sweat into his beard, looking a mixture of angry and exasperated. “Our charming pursuers have been graceful enough to send in backup from farther down the road to the mountains.” 

Sandor glanced at his Little Bird, looking exhausted and frightened, her long braid a mess, but still sitting straight on Guardian’s back. _As if that`s telling, she’s fucking septa-trained, she would probably sit straight directly into death._

“Fuck, south then,” he grunted, knowing Jaime and Brienne knew what he was really saying. But Sansa’s voice cut through when he started urging his rooted mount out of his half-sleep.

“Saltpans… ” _Hell, you would know maps, now, wouldn`t you? But it`s worth a rope around my neck to get you to safety, Little Bird._ Trouble was, they couldn`t continue in that direction for long. They needed to push through to the west or try to cross the Trident at a much broader point before or after Saltpans, the Quiet Isle being a possibility he just couldn`t use. Sandor had worked too close to royalty, too high up for too many years, being too intelligent to just ignore the lessons fucking thrown at him by watching the political rule of great men. Just the thought of Petyr Baelish getting his soft hands on the information Elder Brother sat on concerning Westeros, made Sandor’s gut clench. If Littlefinger had managed to slither out of the Blackfish’s carefully laid plans, he would be the mighty all-consuming poison that killed them all, crushing Sansa’s cause to dust. Baelish with access to the opposition’s knowledge of allies and foes, their eyes and ears… Seven hells… Too bloody dangerous. 

Sandor met her gaze quietly through the moonlight. “No, Little Bird, not yet. But we fucking well need to hit the woods again for the time being.”

He ended up needing to push Stranger out of his slumber and into a trot down the dirt-road they were following, waiting until it turned west again before going straight south through the night-forest, on the fucking verge of praying for luck… or more likely a flaming earth-slide to bury the buggers swarming about their tails like angry wasps. 

They fell into the tired rhythm of switching between walking their horses and running on their feet until it was time for another hour’s trotting. Finally they found a new cart-road even rockier than the old one, but mercifully free of branches whipping their faces, leading past uninhabited huts made for shepherds to use during the summer-grazing. The long tufts of grass poking through the snow making it clear that no livestock had been here this autumn. _Probably burned by my fucking kind and gentle shit of a brother…_

Hours later, when they`d finally followed a dirt-road to where it joined the larger road from Saltpans, they found themselves much further west than anticipated, the Trident having narrowed into an ordinary wide river, winding itself through the landscape. They paused, listening for more barking, but the night was dead quiet once more.

“Sandor, I refuse to go to Saltpans. Someone`s bound to recognize you,” Sansa said, her usually clear voice cloudy with tiredness, her obvious worry for him taking him aback.

“And they won`t in Lord Harroway’s town?” he rasped, glancing sideways at her as he checked for the tenth time that the straps that bound his shield to his saddle were quick to release.

“Don`t be silly,” she positively spluttered at him, a sign of how tired she was if there ever fucking was one, losing control like that when they weren`t even arguing. “We`re going in the opposite direction to Saltpans whether you want to or not.”

“Yes, we bloody are. But my job is to keep _you_ safe at all costs, Little Bird, not me,” he growled in reply, not quite knowing if he should feel flattered or undermined. _She`s my lady, not my wife. And I`m captain of her meagre guard, not her fucking toy._ If they got out of this with their skin intact, the new and strange mix of roles between them was bound to fuck things up on so many levels for sure… 

The calculation was easy enough. With hounds snarling so close at their heels, trying to go cross-country was sheer stupidity even though it gave cover; following a road would expose them, but gain them speed. So they continued on the road, passing abandoned farms and burnt out hovels, the steady beat of trotting horses on snow comforting in the quiet night, the lack of barking worrying as hell – not giving them any indication on how they fared, if they could dare rest.

They ate as they rode, trying to get new energy out of nothing, half-sleeping on shifts in the saddle when possible. Civilization began closing in, light from farmhouses shining in the distance, telling tales about early morning chores and life incredibly enough continuing on despite war and winter. The road followed the Trident for long stretches before turning around bends in the terrain, avoiding cliffs and clay-ground alike, continuing along the river at a later stage.

Small lopsided boathouses lay along the rocky bank of the river, tangled nets hanging like gigantic spider-webs on the walls, waiting in vain to be mended, snow and ice sticking them to the ground. There had obviously been enough to do here before the War of the Five kings, but now the riverlands’ resources lay fallow, little more than blackened beams and framework visible every time they passed by small clusters of what had been people’s homes, but softened by the white snow glittering in the light from the moon. Sandor glanced at Sansa, riding by his side and studying the ruins of her mother’s birthlands, and couldn`t help but wonder if Edmure Tully was still alive. Jaime had just shrugged his shoulders when asked, and said that the nephew was in no way made of the same stuff as the uncle, but at least he`d been safe and sound when he`d been sent to Casterly Rock. 

Sansa turned tired eyes on him and smiled sadly, tentatively reaching a hand out to him as their mounts plodded on at a walk side by side. He looked at her hand for a second before catching on. _Ah, fuck…_ Well, they`d buggered all secrecy to hell already, so fuck him if he wouldn`t give her what she wanted when she`d run all night without so much as sighing in complaint. It even felt a bit like saying sorry for growling at her earlier. Nonetheless he felt as foolish as the fucking Knight of Flowers as he reached out and took her hand, glaring murder at the Lion, who instantly looked like he was about to laugh himself off his horse at the display, but mercifully started studying the landscape with intense interest instead. Brienne, the blessedly ignorant wench, just followed Jaime’s eyes and started searching futilely for what was so absorbing, making Sandor want to shake her and grin like an idiot at the same time. Bloody hell, they were a strange group travelling together if ever there was one.

So Sandor decided he didn`t give a fuck and moved Stranger closer to Guardian, kissing his tired Little Bird, feeling her smile against his lips as the slightly uneven length of their mounts’ gaits rocked the two of them strangely together for every step. He wanted to tell her everything would be alright, but knew to fucking well that life would always try to bugger you up the arse one way or another. Her kiss was sweet, though, her smile sending streaks of a weird kind of joy through him. Making him enjoy the sensation of her tongue flitting over his even more before they broke the kiss. Seven hells, she was delicious. He just needed to get _them_ out of this so he could get _her_ out of those annoying clothes again…

But as every fucking God obviously had it in for him, the barking behind them started up once more half an hour later, too bloody close. And what had Sandor’s hackles rising even more, was the unmistakable answers from the forest above them, the barking echoing back and forth, supplied with the sounds of hunting-horns, the noose tightening mercilessly. _Seven flaming, fucking hells!_ Their pursuers were closing in, make no bleeding mistake about that. The sudden rush of fear gave their small party energy to pick up speed again, the hounds’ continued barking adding to the adrenaline high they all were starting to float on. _Bugger me, I`ll bloody kiss the Lion in pure fucking joy if this ends up a close escape…_

The Trident was glittering to the south, the road having diverged from its banks as the river continued to snake its way inland. It was almost like Sandor could _see_ both the Quiet Isle and Riverrun shimmering in either direction… Not knowing if Riverrun was a safe option at all, knowing that the information regarding that lay in Lord Harroway’s Town - that all the information they could ever wish for was waiting in Elder Brother’s Hermit Hole… Desperation surged in him at the thought that they were so frustratingly close. _How many buggers are after us? If we could just fucking take them down… if Sansa was sure to reach the Quiet Isle…_

They hadn`t much more to give, humans and horses equally exhausted. Their pursuers were catching up, the barking taking on the frantic quality of picking up the chase in the last phase. Seven hells, he`d hunted down both men and prey enough times himself to know how this worked, for fuck’s sake… The memory of cutting the wolfbitch’s butcher’s boy down from behind as the lad ran flat out with frightened sobs, made him triple his effort in trying to keep their pace up. Instincts and old habits had him starting to find good places for one last desperate stand, glancing at his Little Bird, drinking in her beautiful features, being fucking grateful he`d been allowed so close to her, the faint disappointment of not having fucked her as planned disappearing in the bloody strange feeling of flaming loving her. _Seven hells…_

The way was winding itself down a hillside with a steep slope down on their left, a hellishly rocky drop before continuing down the valley, the Trident glittering broad and cold beside them in the winter moonlight. Large leafless trees, with snow-covered branches reaching for the lightening sky, stood sentry on either side of the road. The barking rolled up and down the hillside behind them, but closing in, tightening off the possibility of escape to one side only: west, where they were going anyway… or being fucking driven to? Bile rose in Sandor’s throat at how easily they`d been led into the trap. Straight to the crossing over to Lord Harroway’s Town… and the meeting between this road and the mountainroad – which their fucking enemies obviously had full control over. And they had nowhere else to go, unless he led Petyr’s men to the Quiet Isle, or fucking tried to swim the Trident in winter. _Bugger you, you useless Gods, bloody pieces of shit the lot of you!_

The Lion trotted up to his side before he could call on him. Being a seasoned soldier himself and, as Sandor sourly admitted to know fucking well, a bloody splendid commander, Jaime had come to the same conclusion as Sandor. They exchanged glances, words bloody unnecessary.

“Where the road narrows in with the drop to the south?” the Lion asked quietly, no nonsense and just expecting a confirmation of the order that would most likely send them both to their deaths. Sandor felt his grudging respect for the bastard grow and stopped Stranger reluctantly. 

The barking was growing ever louder, resonating in the forest, making it hard to know, but… four packs? And as himself, Brienne and Jaime had sent eleven men to their graves the last time, how many had they put in each group? Five? Ten? With hunter’s horns to blow when they found them, reining the others in to help. _If we`re bloody lucky we`ll meet twenty sods on garrons and their own feet, if we`re in as shitty luck as I fear; twice that number of fucking knights on coursers… We`re most likely dead either way._

Sansa was looking from him to Jaime with dawning understanding on her beautiful features, eyes widening, catching up lightning quick as always. _Need to act before she digs her claws in and gets just as stubborn as bloody winter itself…_ He couldn`t bloody stand that. If she started to plead… Something deep inside him ached for her touch and caresses, his skin burning with the memory of her love and acceptance –letting go hurt more than he could ever have imagined. Sadness slammed through him, hardening into indestructible determination, the intense need to protect her. At all costs. And they hadn`t any time to lose anyway. Feeling pain stab through him, he nodded at the Lion and met Sansa’s eyes just as they heard faint shouting from the ridge they`d descended moments before. 

She looked gorgeous, wild, like the north. Her hair a fiery tangle in the first golden beams from the rising sun, her eyes clear blue like the point between the pink clouds in the east and the still dark blue sky fading over to black in the west. They were filled with fear and exhaustion, but also control… courage. Drowning him in blinding agony as he opened his mouth to speak, his throat tightening strangely, his insides a churning mess of longing and sorrow.

“Brienne, you`re the best fucking guard she could ever wish for, get her the fuck out of this and let two seasoned bastards do what they were bloody made for,” he started, throwing his money-pouch in the large woman’s direction, unable to look away from Sansa’s increasingly frightened gaze. His throat was fucking constricting, embarrassing enough, his voice even more hoarse than usual when he kicked himself to continue saying his farewell. “You`ll do well, Little Bird… Lady Stark. Ride Guardian to death if you have to. Find Elder Brother.” _I love you. Don`t break. Please._

Jaime smiled sadly to a stone-faced Brienne and threw her a kiss before wheeling Honour around, flashing his fucking unstoppable cheeky grin and shouting back over his shoulder, amazingly enough sounding honest as hell. “You were too bloody good for me anyway, Beauty, go beat the shit out of that Hyle idiot and marry him instead. Just know a Lannister wanted you first!” 

Sandor couldn`t fucking take anymore. Already longing for the fight that would free him from this pain, he forced himself to break Sansa’s gaze and kicked his tired mount into a canter. Knowing he couldn`t even kiss her goodbye or he`d break. His Little Bird’s sudden high, husky wail getting partly drowned out in the thundering of the stallions’ hooves as they galloped back the way they`d come, Sandor trying to swallow the chaos stuck in his throat, trying to close his ears, trying to get his vision back. Not able to turn his head and watch the one good thing in his life disappear or he`d shatter to fucking pieces. 

They reached the narrowing of the road before their enemies. Allowing their horses a short rest as the riders adjusted armour, getting their helmets and gauntlets out of saddlebags, relieving their mounts of all extra weight. And waited. Jaime with a rocky slope up on his left side, Sandor with the drop down on his right, making the most of what they had, knowing their only task was to be human shields and hold as long as possible, die as expensive as possible. Which they fucking would. _Come on, you fuckers. Try us. You know us as the Kingslayer and the Hound. Didn`t think you`d meet us, now did you?_

The dogs came first around the bend of the road, barking like mad when they found their prey, the racket not impressing the two war-trained stallions one shit. Stranger just raised his head in interest, the massive muscles in his back lifting Sandor up an inch as the mount readied himself, feeling Sandor’s energy changing. Adrenaline starting to pump again, rage at every fucking idiot who tried to hurt Sansa, get their dirty hands on her, _touch_ her at all, snaking through his entire being, melting into his veins. _No one would hurt you again, or I`d kill them._ The familiar need for a proper fight to unleash all the energy building up making his lips curl back into a snarl as the first armoured men followed the hounds. 

“What a splendid day to die messily!” Jaime said, grinning for all he was worth as they both hefted their shields, their mounts starting to throw their heads, tired but experienced, stirring themselves up, knowing what was coming. Just like their owners.

“Mess won`t even _begin_ to describe what we`ll fucking make of these pissing bags of shit!” Sandor rasped in return, grinning back at Jaime, pushing his sorrow down, the high of the fight already shining like a beacon inside him, washing the exhaustion away. For now.

He closed his visor with a clang, Jaime following suit, laughing as Honour danced underneath him. Fuck, of all people Sandor could have ended up here with, Jaime was a bloody brilliant partner for holding a road. As relentless as the old lions of Casterly Rock. 

The buggers up the road hesitated when they saw them standing there, fully armored on two warhorses and Jaime fucking laughing at them. Sandor grinned at the sight of the flaming rabble, fussing around trying to gather the meagre amounts of guts they had between them, probably. And the rest of their forces, it became clear pretty soon.

Sandor was trained and educated as a knight after all, even if he`d never spoken the useless vows. He`d been drilled in the arts of the fighting man for more or less his entire life. It changed the way you moved, your whole posture, all the edges honed away the hard way. It took him under a heartbeat to judge an opponents skill as a sword-fighter, just watching the way he used his body, how he held himself. And these men moved like half-trained garbage usually used as arrow-fodder or to dig latrines. The vanguard you didn`t intend to spare. Which was exactly what they were, of course.

The knights appeared, none of importance by their shields, but mounted at least – on horses as lathered as their own. Not that arms mattered anymore. Sandor and Jaime’s shields were painted in vague resemblances of old houses long dead, Brienne’s idea – she had her moments - and others could fucking well have done the same. Right now Sandor would have given quite a lot to have his own feared family arms on his shield, combined with a bloody banner screaming Kingslayer over Jaime’s head. That would have frightened the shit out of their opponents on pure reputation… but also given away the moment of horrified surprise.

Sandor’s anger blazed and burned higher at the thought that any of these idiots would be able to brag about taking the two of them down, his contempt for the useless buggers growing as their numbers swelled two hundred feet away, but not a man among them daring to come forwards to fight two lone men on horseback. Bloody cravens. Only the dogs continued making a fucking racket, throwing themselves forwards in their leashes, tugging to get loose. 

In a bleeding absurd way it felt fitting. The sun was yet again sending its brilliant light over the landscape, the pink sky lightening to light blue, birds were flying free in the sky and the dogs were chained to their destiny, barking on the ground. _Please fly free, Little Bird. I was fucked from the beginning, chained to the only thing I`ve flaming known for all my life._ He missed her already, the strange deep sorrow welling up in him again, mixing into all the anger and contempt, toughening the already rock-hard resistance in him, the complete refusal to yield any ground at all, knowing he would die for it, and not giving two shits. _Bugger them all._

They eventually seemed to find their nut-sized balls, ten bloody hedge-knights, two knights of higher standard and twenty peasants with short-swords. He exchanged a glance with Jaime through his visor, both of them shortening their reins by making a knot so they would rest over the mounts’ necks when they needed to let the reins go to fight men on both sides.

“Might make a battlefield of this yet, dog,” the Lion grinned, green eyes hard as hell.

“Less than expected. Blasted idiots. Get half of them flying down that slope to smash their fucking heads in on the boulders, and we`ll bloody have a ball here,” he grunted in return.

“Charge and hit right, then?” Jaime asked matter of fact.

“And take down the two who`re actually fucking worth something,” Sandor rasped in reply, feeling the thrill of the upcoming fight expanding, clinging to it, pushing everything else away, focusing on nearing the complete high of adrenaline he stood more or less shivering for. _Only proper way to die is in battle._ He`d always thought that. It felt strange for the first time to have something to live _for._

The buggers crept towards them, apparently intimidated by the lack of reaction to their numbers, the knights lining up behind the men on foot, apparently waiting for Sandor and Jaime to be engaged with the rabble before charging. Bastards. So much for fucking protecting the weak…

“See you in hell, Clegane!” the Lion said, bowing to him with eyes glittering as the men started advancing on them.

“Bugger me, if we won`t fucking wreak havoc there as well!” Sandor grinned, bowing in return, not knowing if he mocked their enemies or showed Jaime his respects. Something of both, he reflected, hefting his shield and unsheathing his sword, Stranger growing five inches. And then they just charged.

Sandor heard how he roared as Stranger exploded underneath him, ears flat and his black mane flying as he lowered his head and thundered straight for the frightened little shits scattering like chickens in a farmyard, trying to unleash their dogs before it was too late. Jaime and Honour steady at his side. Sandor put his weight towards the Lion, and Stranger obediently steered left without losing speed, making the men before them on the road throw themselves to the right, Jaime turning Honour quick as hell behind Stranger as they both threw their weight back. Sandor’s thighs tightened around Stranger, his heels treading down hard in the stirrups on both sides, tightening the reins, the horses sitting back on their haunches, coming to an abrupt half-stop and wheeling with full force as he used left rein and right leg to turn Stranger around, slamming his massive courser into the screaming men and barking dogs already balancing over the drop beside the road. Jaime did the same, and Sandor saw fuckers and dogs fly like sacks of grain, howling alike as they fell to their deaths. 

He immediately reared Stranger up in front and his fucking brilliant mount spun again and started sending kicks at the remaining rabble scrambling to avoid being smashed to pieces or pushed over the slope, their swords less than useless up against the sheer force and rapid motion of two war-horses with two of Westeros’s best fighters on top of them, Jaime’s lack of right hand made irrelevant by his left-handed fighting technique. When battling so many opponents at once, Sandor’s every bloody movement became both offensive and defensive at the same time, struck at full force and with professional precision, his mind taking in every shift of position, responding hard to built-in instincts, ever sword-thrust a countercut. 

His sword was dripping red as Sandor used Stranger’s aggressive movements to his advantage, asking the fucking magnificent weapon underneath him to jump up and strike with his front legs, killing as effectively as his rider as Sandor cut down two men at his side, Stranger landing just to kick out with his iron-shod back hooves, connecting mercilessly with the men in their rear. Sandor slammed his shield down to bash in a man’s helmet, blood spurting out of the fucker’s nose and mouth before he fell, Sandor’s boot connecting with full force, kicking in the face of another man in a half-helm to slow for his own good. The crushing feeling of breaking bones and the gurgle of the man’s dying breath barely even registering in the rush of battle, the shrill barking of the remaining dogs, the screams of agony and the brilliantly clear haze, the intense high _\- soaring -_ feeling, that followed the giving up of restraint. 

Sandor rapidly took out the another fucker’s throat and felt Stranger surge forwards on the battle-frenzy of his rider, Jaime thundering up on his side as the both of them flat out charged the knights trying to regain a semblance of ranks to make their own charge in return, hesitating a moment too long in shock of the brutal competence just displayed. He laughed hoarsely at the Stranger’s fucked up way of claiming what was already his. Knowing they were chanceless, two against twenty, he still found it fucking hilarious that it was the flock of knights who fussed like septas in smallclothes. And smashed into them, side by side with Jaime, thrusting his sword straight into the armpit of a man with no knowledge of defence, Stranger getting a cut from the knight on his right front. _Chivalrous, my arse._ Roaring in white-hot rage, Sandor gave the man a devastating blow with his shield as he fought off another man with his sword, grabbed the first bugger’s wrist and flipped him around, throwing him howling into the bastard coming for Sandor from his side, so they both fell screaming down the slope. 

Fighting when outnumbered was all about seeing advantages, and using the fact that there was only room for so many horses around them, he fought mostly three at a time. Fighting hard, fast and with twenty years of brutal routine, every thrust a countercut, letting blows glance off his armour, deflecting strikes with his shield quickly, using that movement again to hack, slam and block, pin swords and daggers, and at the same time continuing to ask Stranger to raise his front, to get room enough to use his own impressive reach, his strength and quickness, to his advantage. Knowing this was what he did best, being a bloody terrifying weapon, and for the first time fighting because he _had_ something to lose. _Sansa._ Not giving ground one inch, finding the weaknesses in his opponents’ strike-pattern, seeing their loopholes, relying on his instincts. Working his sword faster than any of the fuckers had skills to counter and kicking away the dogs trying to take Stranger down by tearing at his belly, biting his legs. Sandor found himself grinning viciously at the irony, thrusting his sword into a man’s abdomen, his hot blood steaming in the winter chill. He knew from experience that any dog kicked too many times would eventually bugger off. Ending up laughing like mad, flying on the battle-frenzy, as he unleashed all the raging violence that was fucking part of his nature. 

Stranger continued to explode up in exercises above the ground, wheeling, jumping on his hind legs to strike bastards in front of him with his hoofs, tearing at everything he could reach with his teeth, shaking off dogs and lifting a man up, trampling him to mush after flinging him to the ground as Sandor unhorsed knights left and right, fighting off two men trying to cut his reins, getting Stranger to slam them down with his massive shoulder, both he and his horse receiving cuts in return. The mighty beast was slowly starting to tire, pink slashes standing out against his pitch-black fur, bleeding out his strength. He`d run for a night already, sweat, lather and blood mingling down his flanks as he was snorting in strain, and men coming at them from every side.

Sandor wanted to howl in frustration when he felt Stranger’s movements growing stiff and erratic with exhaustion. But fucking hell, no way they`d let the bastards continue in these numbers after Sansa and Brienne. Jaime’s wench could take down three at least singlehandedly, four perhaps, but not fifteen. But they were hopelessly outnumbered, receiving hits no matter how good their guard was, blood dripping a bit too steadily from his right vambrace already even if he couldn`t take in the pain just now. _Need to last as long as fucking possible._

But ‘last’ was a word changing by context. Honour went down with a crash and Jaime launched himself at the men around him before he was surrounded by four knights trying to take him down, the Lion’s sword a left-handed blur, his shield his only backup. Desperation started to seep through Sandor’s explosive aggression, fighting off both men on foot and mounted knights, kicking his exhausted and wounded horse over a burly knight he`d just unhorsed, trying to reach Jaime. Even grinning as the man’s scream turned to a gurgling wheeze as ninety stone of horse bent in the bugger’s breastplate, crushing his chest, the rising feeling of despair frustrated Sandor no end. His own body was starting to tire, too, his shoulders burning with the strain of keeping the speed up, missing his own beheading by a split second when a man jumped up from behind, saved by his bloody irreplaceable mount who gave the fucker a kick through all seven hells and trampled him nearly as an afterthought. _Fucking brilliant, boy._

They were bloody swarming him, trying to use the advantage of having managed to divide him from Jaime, but wary of him nonetheless. Unfortunately, they could see as well as he that most of the fight was gone from his horse, and so they went for him as one. Stranger knew the drill and tried hard to keep on doing what was asked of him, but Sandor felt his exhaustion in the heaviness of his movements, the way he hung on his bit, the laboured breath and desperate aggression of an animal that knew he was done. Sandor forced himself to fight harder, strike faster, rage and frustration screaming through him as he fucking refused to give in. _Fly fast, Little Bird._

Using his armour to glance off blows, as well as his shield, he continued pushing in between the last two mounted knights, using their horses to block more of the men on foot from killing Stranger. Rapidly disarming a fat knight, fucking wheezing in his armour, by locking the man’s sword under his shield and pulling the idiot out of his saddle before the bugger managed to blink, Sandor turned and sent the screaming man’s sword flying into another man’s chest, his chainmail as good as fucking paper for all the protection it gave him. Fighting one of the knights who obviously knew what he was doing on his left, and trying to see where the Lion was, Sandor held the reins of the fat knight’s horse tight, continuing to use the mount as a shield as he took down the last mounted knight, his swordpoint penetrating the chainmail over his gorget, cutting half his head off, blood spurting as he fell.

Turning, Sandor more or less _lifted_ Stranger into a last charge, crashing through the men right in front of him, dragging the two other mounts with him, trampling men dead and alive, finally able to see Jaime again. Still standing, the hard fuck, he`d lost his helmet but was fighting three new men. Even fighting with the last of his reserves, for his fucking life, he managed to look bloody arrogant and every inch the supreme fighter he was, gliding from stance to stance quick as a snake despite the blood running red down his side. 

Sandor felt how a sword-edge grazed his lower thigh down to his calf as he pushed Stranger over to the Lion, ignoring the sting and blood running down under his greave, throwing him the reins of the better of the two horses as he slammed into Jaime’s opponents. Stranger trampled down one, ears flat into his mane, before suddenly stumbling, going down on his knees with a deep groan, a sword sticking out of his shoulder. _That`s it, then._ Feeding all the despair and sorrow suddenly welling up into the fire of his blinding rage, Sandor quickly let go and rolled off when his magnificent mount fell, a blade swishing where his head should have been, and threw himself at the man trying to kill him. 

Jaime had given up trying to mount, and fought his way over to Sandor on foot, roaring at their enemies, _Sansa’s_ enemies, as they stood there, back to back, holding the road. A man was shouting something about ‘Lannister’ to his mate, pointing with his sword at Jaime’s uncovered face, creating a pause in the fight as their opponents tried to regroup. Sandor grinned and opened his visor, showing the fucking idiot his teeth and infamous scars, laughing at the terror spreading over the faces visible under their half-helms, the tightening of hands on swordhilts.

“Go home and fuck your grandmothers, you useless sacks of shit,” he roared. “We`ve already taken down half of you, and bugger me if you`re worth the piss seeping down your legs right now.”

Jaime grinned cocky as hell and dipped his head to the hesitating fuckers surrounding them. Sandor shut his visor, and all hell broke loose.

Sandor saw red and laughed at the same time, launching himself at two armoured men, knowing the forms and stances of ordinary knights in his sleep, every counterpoint, every twist to use their own movements against them, his footwork being the basis for always keeping his balance, his timing a part of his very being, sword thrusting into every man he could reach, penetrating armour if the blow was hard enough, always keeping his shield up to simultaneously block, hack and pin. Sweat was running down his back and the snow around him was coloured red with his own blood as well as his enemies’, seeping from all the cuts and nicks he couldn`t feel right now, his leg throbbing, but working just fine. For now.

Using his sword to feint a thrust and knocking the bastard down with his shield when he jumped to the side, Sandor instantly bent low and turned quickly, crashing into a man coming at him from behind, grabbing his arm and twisted it until the bone broke as he used him as a human shield against the other knight in front of him before kicking him too down the slope. The man’s screams reverberating down the valley as two new men took his place, a knight jumping over a fallen comrade, coming at Sandor anew. He tried to pick up speed again, no longer able to afford to fight with even a thought for his own safety. The only thing that mattered was taking as many of them down with him as possible.

Cold steel cut through his brigandine, grazed his ribs, cut his shieldarm, warm blood ran, but not one of them managed to impale him on their swords, the killing-frenzy surging higher with the adrenaline pumping in him, the desperation of the last man standing. Her name sang in him as he saw the Lion go down to his left, blood running down his neck from his hair as he fell. Sandor roaring wordlessly and cleaved the fucker responsible nearly in two, using too much force, too much time, receiving a blow over his shoulder, a hit to his head. Nothing mattered but her, Sansa, Little Bird, _kill them all._ Faster, keep on moving, the only thing that counted now, selling himself so dearly that Little-fucking-finger would never be able to pay his debt.

So he fought, feeling his tired body begin to give up, his mind starting to slow down, his life-blood leaving him through more and more injuries, the exhaustion making him start to feel the pain as he dealt blows in every direction possible, his shield-arm starting to drag, couldn`t lift it to hack a peasant in mail to his grave, his sword so notched by now that he struggled to find the extra force to thrust through chainmail and under gorgets. But the hilt was a mass of sticky, congealing blood, and there were fewer men around him, and nothing mattered but Sansa. 

“Come on, you sons of whores! Is this all you`ve got?” he roared, hearing how hoarse he was, standing with his legs spread trying to defend Jaime’s body, feeling how the old injury to his thigh made his leg buckle slightly when he turned and rapidly grabbed the blunt part of a knight’s sword, tugging it straight out of the man’s hands as his own swordpoint found the opening in the sod’s visor, blood streaming down his chest, laughing as he did so in pure spite. 

Fuck he was exhausted, his vision a blur if he didn`t concentrate, continuing to fight only because he was too bloody stubborn to die just yet. _Sansa._ His whole body was on fire, pain like nausea, burning waves flowing through him, his left arm didn`t work and he`d bled too much. Sandor knew the signs, he`d been a soldier his entire life after all. His heart raced to make up for the blood-loss, cold sweat was covering his face and ran down his back, but he was too bloody dizzy and had too much trouble breathing to find that troublesome right now. And so fucking thirsty. _Seven hells, concentrate man!_

The ground was covered in the dead and wounded, blood everywhere. _We made it a battlefield, Lion, don`t you worry about that. See you in hell, polishing your fucking honour._ And with that he gathered the last of his strength and slammed into the only remaining knight, ignoring the two bastards flanking him, just twisting so their steel grazed his pauldron and vambrace instead of his flesh, increasing his speed one last time, his sword flashing in the sunlight as he pressed the tired knight into doing something stupid. The bastard forgot to guard his left side, just two inches of sloppiness at a feint from Sandor, and he felt how his blade slid under the man’s arm, through mail and leather, in between his ribs. Jerking backwards he opened the knight up, another gush of blood colouring his gauntlets red, gore spilling down the knight’s front. And the last two men threw themselves at Sandor.

He knew he was dead as he fell backwards, tightening the muscles in his back and abdomen of old habit against the blows raining over him, his leg giving out underneath him, his left arm limp. His vision shrinking and the numb feeling of unconsciousness creeping in. _Sansa._ Fucking hell. He couldn`t feel his swordhilt in his hand anymore, couldn`t remember dropping it, but reached for his dagger nonetheless and grabbed one of the fuckers as he fell, stabbing him in the eye with full force, the blood spurting over Sandor’s chest as they both went down in a heap, the man’s death-cramps on top of his bruised body hurting like seven fiery hells, barely registering the warm feeling of the man’s piss when he turned into a corpse.

Someone opened his visor, letting in brilliant sunlight, and a blurry face appeared. Sandor couldn`t even muster enough strength to kick off the body on top of him, his breathing laboured, his heart trying to beat itself out of his chest, and pain. So much pain. His thoughts drifted and swirled, but somehow came back to the satisfying feeling that it had been worth it. _Sansa._ They`d fucking demolished the entire hunt. It was worth dying for. _You`ve always been worth dying for._

The man was saying something about the Hound, but his words were difficult to pick out. Didn`t help that Sandor started coughing either, the metallic taste of blood making him even more nauseous. But he forced himself to grin red at the bastard anyway.

“Fuck you, you bloody whoreson, tell Littlefinger I`ll be waiting for him in hell,” he rasped, and waited for the killing blow, thinking of auburn hair and Tully blue eyes, her sweet smile, her eager kisses, her love… _I loved you too, Sansa. Seven hells. How did you fucking manage to make me human before I died?_

His heartbeat wouldn`t slow down, racing like Stranger’s hoof beats when he ran flat out, mane flying. Was Stranger still alive? He`d liked to run. _Sansa._ Sandor was drifting and he knew it, forcing himself to focus, watching the man above him raise his sword. It went too slow, too foggy, his heart was racing and… a dagger stood out from the man’s throat. Strange how it resembled Jaime’s. _Sansa._ It had been worth it. _I loved you._


	25. Beloved…

Sansa couldn`t breathe, couldn`t quite comprehend what was happening, her thoughts turning into a hazy mix of apathetic despair and sheer panic. _No, please, let this be a nightmare. Please, Sandor, please._ The dreamlike, numb state of her mind clashed gratingly with the cold on her cheeks where her tears were freezing, the sound of Guardian’s exhausted snorting, the smell of his sweat and Brienne’s stony expression as she trotted Daisy by her side with Guardian’s reins firmly in her grip. Sansa felt so drained herself that she wondered how the horses were able to trot at all, blown and lathered as they were, her senses trying to tell her she should be grateful for Brienne’s sensible pace if they were to continue on for another day and night, but just unable to find it in herself to care.

It felt like someone had turned her upside down, like the pressure around her head weighed ten stones, the nausea churning in her stomach a swirling mess of desperate sorrow and the anguished memories of the deaths of her other loved ones. The brutal way her easy and smiling childhood had been ripped to pieces echoing so unbelievably painfully with this. It should have prepared her. She should have known it couldn`t last. But she`d felt so _safe_ and Sandor had been so solid, so indestructible in his sheer force of presence, having outlived everything from his brother to turning outlaw, a veteran of twenty years of soldiering, countless battles, skirmishes, _even alone in a riot,_ he should have been able to survive anything. _He should have grown old with me._

Tears leaked down her cheeks. How could she think of him as dead already? He was surely still alive. But his piercing gaze was burned into her vision. His calm acceptance of the knowledge that he was leaving her side to die for her had been clear as glass in his deep grey eyes. The way he`d turned away from her, all steely control, not even kissing her…. He hadn`t even allowed her to say goodbye. Why _hadn`t_ he kissed her? Why hadn`t he held her and stroked her hair and said he loved her? She _knew_ he`d loved her. And if a favour was ever meant to be given, it was in such a tragic circumstance, damn it! Not even Sandor could have refused to wear it if she`d given him… something, _anything._

Dry sobs were wrenched from her throat no matter how she tried to hold them back, every fibre in her screaming for something to give meaning when all she wanted was to lay down in the snow and let the Stranger claim her too. Her emotions continued to storm inside her, a confusing mixture of sorrow and _anger…_ and a sadness so heavy it felt like she would suffocate underneath it. And all the while she mentally upbraided herself for wailing like a child when her… _beloved,_ Gods be good, surely was dying for her cause right this instant _\- to keep me safe -_ Sansa desperately dried her tears again and again without managing to stop the flow. She should pull herself under control, honour his sacrifice. Keep her head high and cry later. Love him in memory. Like in the _blasted_ stories. Act like the grand lady she was supposed to be, was preparing herself to be. How could she ever rule the north or convince her bannermen of her competence if she indulged the desire to give up before she`d even met them? She of all people should know that every prize has its cost. _But this is too expensive, hurts too much, isn`t worth it…_

Glancing sideways at Brienne’s face, she finally managed to take hold of herself. The warrior maid looked like she was chiselled from rock, her eyes cold and hard, their usual brilliant blue seeming flat, closed. She`d only done what a sworn shield should, Sansa supposed, but she still felt fury well up in her at how Brienne had stopped her from galloping after Sandor, from feeling his arms around her one last time. Why couldn`t Brienne have gone with Jaime? She loved living the knight’s life and would probably have gone to her death side by side with the Lion like a proper hero. _What am I thinking! What`s wrong with me?_

Brienne had just grabbed Guardian’s bridle and resolutely turned her back to the men, dragging Sansa away from the sight of Sandor’s broad back disappearing in the distance, her sore cries loud in her own ears until Brienne had resolutely turned in the saddle and slapped her, meeting her gaze stubbornly before continuing onwards – her usual hesitancy nowhere to be seen. _I didn`t even get… if I could only have… just something that smelled of him, at least. Something to remember him by. Like the cloak._

Tears welled up in her eyes once more, remembering his Kingsguard-cloak, probably still lying folded under her summer silks somewhere - remembering his desperate state the night he`d left it for her. He`d even cried. She _knew_ she`d felt his tears on her fingers, but still had trouble envisioning him crying. The mixture of darkness, blood on his face and the green light from the Battle of the Blackwater had concealed how he`d looked when he just couldn`t take anymore. He certainly hadn`t cried just now, that`s for sure… only done his duty, giving his life in exchange for her escape. How he`d used to sneeringly deny having any honour at all was beyond Sansa, even though she didn`t seem able to avoid having childishly mixed feelings about his lack of reaction. But perhaps she needed to cry both in her own sorrow and on behalf of her rough, scarred non-knight. She just had to make herself wait until Brienne couldn`t see her.

To get her heart and soul ripped to pieces on such a glorious day felt brutally unfair and morbidly appropriate at the same time. They were trotting down the road with brilliant early-morning sunshine washing over the landscape, the Trident sparkling between the trees to their left, icicles shining from the branches of birches and the snow glittering nearly blindingly white. Sansa felt like she was having the most peculiar fever-dream, her head stuffed with wool and her chest filled with pain, dazedly knowing she was having a nightmare but looking at a magical world so pure and clean, like the Mother herself had dressed nature in her finest. Just for it to turn dark with Sansa’s horror and sorrow - as though she were doing it to honour her warrior sons on the day they would bleed their life’s blood into her soil.

“Can they make it through?” Sansa blurted, sounding just as desperate as she felt, her voice husky and thick with tears. _Please, just a chance…_ Brienne glanced at her, looking fragile and vulnerable for a heartbeat before closing off again.

“No, Sansa… my lady,” she answered flatly, Sansa’s title creating an even greater distance between them. “We killed too many at the mountain inn for them to risk sending too few.”

The fluttering hope she didn`t even know she`d felt was ripped to pieces inside her, her lungs burning for air until she released the breath she`d been holding, the desperate noise coming out of her mouth not sounding like herself at all as she started sobbing anew. _No, no, no, no… please! Let this be a nightmare. Please…_ But of course it wasn`t. It never was. Not when her father’s legs had twitched, not when Joffrey’s summons had turned into torture, not when she`d been married off to Tyrion, not when she`d been informed of the Red Wedding… Rickon and Bran… and now Sandor. _My Sandor._ And Jaime, she added, nearly as an afterthought, instantly feeling ashamed of herself again.

Jaime had surprised her with the way he had unflinchingly fulfilled his duty. _He really meant it when swearing his sword to me, meant what he said._ She had given him her trust in the crypt, but she was not a naïve, little girl anymore, and so it was only now she really felt it sink into her heart. And Sandor… She didn`t quite know _when_ she`d started to find an ally in Sandor after her father’s beheading, but… He`d been so utterly unpleasant and _true. He must have wanted me for a really long time…_ And that just made her cry harder. Sandor’s lack of… anger, frustration… _bitterness_ at least, had her completely confused. If he`d loved her for years and gone to die fighting her enemies like the golden knight from the stories, her heart broke just as much as if she`d been wrong about his love for her, but still doing his duty. _Stop being an idiot, I`m not wrong, he said he needed me._ No wonder she didn`t want the storybook version of events any more. It hurt so much that only complete simpeltons would just sigh happily at the drama when faced with it for real.

Glancing sideways at Brienne, she suddenly found a second reason for the armed lady’s distance. Sansa had to take responsibility for sending _Brienne’s_ golden knight straight into death as well, like it or not… And then acting the franticly crying damsel in distress… Duty and honour was one thing, but Brienne was only human and that was just… too much. _Oh Gods, Brienne, I`m so sorry…_ She was about to say it out loud when Brienne suddenly tensed, tightening Guardian’s reins, starting to turn both horses into the woods on their left when an arrow suddenly swished past and ended vibrating in a tree-trunk beside Sansa’s head. 

Figures were moving between the trees on the right side of the road. Clad in faded shades of brown roughspun, they nonetheless blended into the shadows of the white-clad forest. Sansa felt her heart try to beat itself out of her chest, the nausea turning to pure bile, fear pulsing through her as a man walked towards them, too many crossbows pointing arrows straight at her and Brienne.

Brienne herself had unsheathed her sword and was quickly positioning Daisy between Sansa and the man coming towards them. His face was covered in a scarf and the hood of his cloak, broad shoulders carrying a crossbow and two dead wood grouses, a sword and a quiver of arrows hanging at his hips. His companions moved fluidly between the trees in his wake, their arrows not changing angle one whit. _But… they`re so small…_ The man approaching them stopped suddenly, tilting his head slightly before dragging his scarf down, exposing young, roughly handsome features. 

“So you found her,” the young man said matter of factly to Brienne, but somehow making it sound an accusation. Sansa turned wide-eyed to her companion, who obviously knew the man but didn`t relax at all.

“Where are your other friends, _ser?”_ Brienne answered with an unnerving chill in her voice, her hand reaching up to the scarf around her neck before snapping down again. The man, no… knight, glanced curiously at her scarred cheek, before shrugging his muscular shoulders.

“They come and go… We need to fend for ourselves, anyway… game is good,” he said defensively, looking stubborn as seven old mountains. Something about his appearance tugged at Sansa’s memory, but she couldn`t quite figure out why. He had thick, black hair peeking out from his hood and piercing blue eyes, broad of build and made broader by his muscular frame. He was really quite handsome, but compared to Sandor he seemed… ordinary. 

Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she blinked them away furiously, needing her wits about her. She reached out and took Guardian’s reins back from Brienne, concealing drying off her cheeks as she fussed to get them over his neck again, waking Brienne from her intense study of the strange knight in front of them. He was starting to look as though the scrutiny bothered him, but if anything it only seemed to make him angry. He glared back at Brienne before continuing speaking sourly to her, ignoring Sansa.

“Wasn`t my fault they took you, I killed Biter, after all. Had hell to pay for it, too, as he was supposed to have stood trial first or some shit,” he said, crossing strong arms over his chest. Sansa had had enough, her sorrow and frustration with the time wasted, colouring her tone.

“Please, ser,” she broke in. “You and my companion obviously know each other. If you mean us no harm, please ask your… men… to lower their weapons and let us pass. As you`ve surely heard the barking and horns, there are men searching this area. Please step aside and let us continue on our way.” 

Brienne glanced at her, dipping her head in agreement before turning to the man again, eyes once more flat and hard. He, on the other hand, stood looking at Sansa with a strange mixture of puzzlement, suspicion and determination.

“She who I think she is?” he asked Brienne, moving back and forth on his feet, but not telling his companions to lower their crossbows. Brienne’s eyes narrowed, before she sighed and nodded, making Sansa’s heart beat faster in pure shock. Why would she betray Sansa to this… forest knight without horse or armour, and something that looked like a group of children trailing in his wake? 

The strange knight just nodded as if he knew the answer already, glancing at Sansa with his blue eyes as if searching for something. Well, as her secret was apparently out in the open, it was no use pretending otherwise. Trying feverishly to swim through her dazed state, Sansa pushed down everything irrelevant to getting out of this possible trap. Wishing she had a proper riding dress on, her hair done and a large entourage at her back, she instead imagined it was so, and straightened even more in the saddle. Chin held high as she tilted her head slightly, she met his eyes as haughtily as her septa had trained her to do when handling obstinate smallfolk.

“Let us pass and you`ll be rewarded, ser. If you know who I am, you also know that I`m good for thrice the gold anyone else would pay for me.” A little trick of Tyrion’s, that. He`d told her once, in his cups, how to ensure loyalty from the disloyal. Sansa had thought it awful at the time, and hated Bronn for being bought like that, but it surely had its uses.

But the strange knight didn`t look impressed at all, just glanced irritably at Brienne. “Know of someone who would rip my heart out for letting her pass, though. No amount of gold would be of value to me then, would it?” Brienne moved Daisy slightly and looked coldly back, but gave Sansa a quick uneasy glance, and the pieces suddenly fit together in Sansa’s mind.

“My mother,” she said, feeling the blood drain from her face. It was the only thing that fit – the location, the focus on Brienne’s scars and the strange knight. She`d been told snippets now and then during their journey together, even if she didn`t know the full story. “You belong to the Brotherhood without Banners. You want to take me to the creature that used to be my mother. Lady Stoneheart,” she whispered.

The man met her eyes, looking part ashamed and part angry, stubborn defiance in his whole posture. “Don`t know if I want to… but I _have_ to, at least, or she`ll hang me too,” he said, sounding petulant. Sansa’s brain was already spinning with the horror, but also finding one shining possibility. She`d already agreed – more or less - to let Brienne save her not-quite-squire by bringing Lady Stoneheart proof that she`d fulfilled her task. If only she could… but that would include what she was increasingly sure were children…

“I will go to her,” she started, still with her head held high, her hands daintily on the reins. Being the noblewoman she was born to be, even if her appearance was on the scruffy side. “But I want something in exchange.” Hope was suddenly hammering through her and needed to be forced down hard before she planted notions in her own head. Ending up feeling both lightheaded with the possibility of coming to Sandor’s rescue and unbelievably dirty at the same time, as the nasty taste of selfishness slowly filled her mouth when she spoke - made even worse by Brienne’s incredulous stare. “I need you and your men, ser. Now.”

The knight looked at her, dumbfounded. “Why?”

“Because I need to aid two of my men who stand alone against the hunt meant for me. Your crossbowmen seem steady enough.” _Are they really children? How did they end up here? And handling crossbows like they know what they`re doing!_ “What is your name, ser?” The knight flicked his gaze between Sansa and Brienne, concluding that Sansa was suddenly in charge, even though Brienne looked furious and at the verge of protesting mightily. Sansa tried to send her a warning glare, but that only made the female warrior open her mouth to speak, so she ended up mouthing ‘Podric’ at her when the knight looked to his companions for support. Mercifully she only had to repeat it once before dawning understanding crossed Brienne’s face and she seemed to struggle with herself before deciding on keeping her mouth shut a bit longer.

“Gendry,” the strange knight said at last, before looking irritated enough to give his full name with his brows furrowed, as if to dare her to contradict him. “Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill.” And then as a reluctant afterthought, “M’ lady.” Brienne’s snort could probably be heard on the other side of the Trident. _Definitely not well-bred, for true._ Not that lowborn men couldn`t be knighted, but he didn`t seem to know anything about how a knight should behave… _Who in the name of the Seven would have knighted a youth without education?_ Even Sandor, who was famous for his horrid manners and lack of respect, knew perfectly well how to behave – he just didn`t bother if it didn`t suit him. 

“Ser Gendry, as you`ve sworn an oath to always defend a lady, protect the weak and never avoid a dangerous path out of fear…” She let it hang in the air between them, as if she was in doubt about the latter, but could let it pass if he responded correctly. Inwardly cringing at demanding _him_ to protect the weak, when she herself was about to use children against armed men. “I believe myself completely within my rights, as your lady’s daughter, to command you to lend me your strength in this moment of peril,” Sansa said, her voice bearing the steel of command, but forcing herself to smile at the perplexed man in front of her as she feverishly tried to tell herself that the small figures gathering behind Ser Gendry would never need to go near the fighting – just fire their crossbows from a safe distance. 

Not knowing if the knight was just stupid enough to agree to help her on such flimsy terms, or merely as reluctant to meet what was left of her lady mother as she was, Sansa nonetheless allowed the massive upward-spiralling feeling of hope wash through her as she trotted poor, exhausted Guardian back the way they`d come. Ser Gendry ran beside her with his ragged pack of youngsters following behind him in a disorganized mess, completed by four small figures riding pillion on two shaggy garrons. Brienne was trotting last on Daisy, looking like she was in severe doubt about the whole thing, and wondering how in the Mother’s name Sansa had managed to take control like this, though small flickers of hope and desperation crossed her face from time to time. 

But then she seemed to shake herself out of her deep thoughts and cantered Daisy heavily up to Sansa’s side, throwing Gendry a sideways glance filled with doubt. “We should try to climb the hillside through the forest. We need cover.” Her gaze swiped over the small frames around them, before she looked Sansa in the eyes. _Yes, I know, Brienne. Don`t you think I`m sick with apprehension at leading children into this? Do you think I would do it if it weren`t our only chance to aid our men?_ But she couldn`t say that out loud, of course. Swallowing her black conscience as she nodded, she graciously gesticulated for Gendry to take the lead, making Brienne fume until she suddenly understood that that left her and Sansa able to talk more freely.

“Can we trust them not to turn on us?” she murmured as they climbed, not able to meet Brienne’s gaze and focusing on the rocky ground.

“Turned on me easily enough,” Brienne answered bitterly. “And I tried to prevent Rorge from raping the innkeep’s little sister with a crossbow.”

“Who`s Rorge?” Sansa whispered back, suddenly into a part of the story she`d never heard before.

“The man who sacked Saltpans wearing Sandor’s helmet,” Brienne answered in a low voice. “I killed him, but Biter chewed my cheek off, and…”

“Ser Gendry killed Biter,” Sansa concluded. What a mess… It didn`t matter, though. _Please let us not be too late…_

They heard the screams of agony and shouting first, the clash of steel and frantic barking reverberating up and down the valley. Sansa felt her gut clench, bile rising in her throat and fear spiking through her body as all of them sneaked through the woods on foot. The horses were left some hundred feet behind with a dirty faced boy, who turned out to be a sullen girl when her hood slipped back from her face, revealing dirty brown hair in a braid. Sansa commanded the smallest children to stay there, too. Not wanting them to witness whatever they would meet further ahead. 

_At least they`re still alive, or else they wouldn`t be fighting down there._ Pushing away the thought that only one of them was needed to make a fight, she ran light-footed in front of the others, ignoring Brienne’s hiss, and dropped down on her belly to wriggle out to the edge of the slope, peeking down into a complete nightmare.

The dead and wounded lay _everywhere,_ horses running free, limping, lying on the ground, weapons dropped, blood and gore colouring the snow a grotesque red, some of the dogs already feasting on human intestines to the desperate pleas for help from among the wounded - and Sandor was falling backwards with a man on top of him, another man bending to wrench open his visor. _Where`s Jaime? There… laying still. No... Gods, please no!_

It all happened so quickly she didn`t even have time to shout for the crossbows. The man had hesitated a moment before raising his sword, Jaime moved out of nowhere, steel glittering in the sun, and the man about to kill Sandor, _her_ Sandor, clutched his neck and went down on his knees before tipping forward, lying still. And Sansa Stark was scrambling down the slope as the others reached the ridge, slipping and sliding, her throat raw from refusing to cry, her screams held inside by willpower alone.

Brienne ran past her, sword unsheathed and looking every inch a knight. Ser Gendry followed, looking much less knightly, but obviously making an angry effort to try to live up to the vows she`d flung in his face earlier. But Sansa could barely see them, or hear their shouts, ducking under Gendry’s arm as he tried to stop her and threw herself to the ground beside Sandor, horrified at the state of him, frightened into a hazy semblance of reality. Her heart was beating high in her chest, tears leaking down her cheeks even if no sound came out of her mouth except for her ragged breathing as she reached for him. His eyes were closed. He didn`t respond. Not to being shaken gently, not to his name.

Sansa barely recognized her own voice, so high and thin as she repeated his name until her breath caught and it felt like she couldn`t exhale. Her throat constricted as her gaze roamed over him, unable to look away from all the injuries, all the blood. _So much blood…_ She felt lightheaded, numb, her lungs burning in need of air. Fear for him prickled through her entire being with her own denial screaming in her ears. He lay so utterly still on the red and white ground, looking like the fallen warrior from one of Old Nan’s ancient songs with the sun glinting off his armour, covered in cuts and blood. _Too much blood._ She couldn`t even tell if he was breathing. A dead man was laying partly over him, with Sandor’s dagger stuck in one eye, a mixture of blood and something else dripping down from its hilt with an ugly glisten. The bestiality itself should have had her shaking, but Sansa couldn`t care less. _Please, please, please… Sandor…_

His sweat-soaked face was so white inside his helmet, strands of damp hair lying over the right side of his face, covering his scars, spilling out from under the steel and over his shoulders. It was getting long. Strange how she should notice that now. Gently stroking his hair away from his face through his open visor, noticing how her hands shaking, her fear grew into a wave of nausea when she realised that even his scarring was paler, his skin cold. _No._ It was like all the noise around her disappeared, her vision shimmering before snapping into focus again. Only to blur once more as tears started rolling down her cheeks, air finally reaching her lungs as she sobbed desperately, her throat hurting _like a fiery hell._ He would have said that, she was sure. Could almost hear his hoarse voice saying it. But she never would again. 

All her sorrow was washing over her anew, the fragile hope and pang of joy when she first saw him still alive smothered brutally by the overwhelming despair of losing him for what felt like a second time. The raw hysteria that threatened to swipe her away felt like a too-tight skin, the pressure robbing her of any control when she heard how she cried in despair. Not able to stop, and not caring that people were looking or that his brigandine was covered in blood - the hardened, iron-disked leather cut to pieces in so many places, gaping wounds visible through it - Sansa laid down on his chest and hugged him to her, crying her broken soul and bleeding heart out between heavy sobs. She stroked her hand up over his armoured shoulder, hazily thinking she should remove his helmet, but settled at finding a strip of skin between that and his gorget, imagining stroking his neck as she`d used to, imagining the skin hot as it`d been all the times he`d pressed her towards him, kissing her, holding her. _Loving me. I know you did. Oh, Sandor…_ And then she felt it, just a flutter, but she felt it.

She was about to shout for help when someone grabbed her from behind and tried to drag her away from him. Making her cry out in distress and try to get loose, fighting against the arms that held her, her screams turning truly desperate.

“Please, don`t take me away from him. I`m trying to… _Listen_ to me, _please!”_

Her frustrated cries were ignored, the huskiness of her voice still sounding strange in her own ears, like it was somebody else that screamed, the dazed state of her mind making her struggle to form the words so important to get out. And she was once again manhandled in the opposite direction to what she wanted in life, disregarded completely, her wishes ignored. How she _hated_ being treated like this, losing control of her own destiny. Something deep inside Sansa growled, from her inner core and out, expanding into blindingly cold rage. She twisted in the grip and spun, grabbing a wrist and quickly bending the arm backwards and up, the person holding her suddenly tiptoeing up in front of her, as she finally found her words.

“Do _not_ dare to lay your hands on me,” she spat into a youngster’s ear. “Do not dare to remove me from my sworn shield.” She turned as she released the lad, _who surely has a year or two on me…_

And ran back to Sandor, not behaving like a lady should at all, but having more important matters to attend to. Two adolescents were trailing her hesitantly and after exchanging glances while one of them rubbed his wrist, helped her remove Sandor’s helmet carefully. Reaching out to feel for his pulse while the roiling nausea threatened to make her sick was the most difficult thing she`d done in her entire life. She didn`t feel it at first, her tears dripping down on his gorget as her worst fear became reality under her fingertips. But then she felt the queerest sensation of movement. Forcing herself to breathe evenly and try to relax, she felt again. And there it was. Weak and uneven… all too quick. But it was there. _You`re alive._

“Help my men and see to the other wounded afterwards, make bandages out of the cleanest cloak you can find. That`s an order,” she breathed, still crying, but this time in relief, trying hard to hold down her hope as she knew perfectly well she`d not received any guaranties of Sandor’s survival. _But he`s not dead yet at least._ The two lads looked at Sandor’s infamous face in fascination, exchanged glances again, and started helping her remove his armour while she instructed them on how to do it. They had to cut his brigandine off, no easy task, but between them they rapidly had Sandor stripped down to his sweat-and-blood-soaked clothes, lying on his cloak. A third boy had started cutting strips from one of the dead men’s cloak to tie around the cuts covering her… she`d called him her sworn shield. Even if he hadn`t actually sworn anything. _I never asked him to swear… He doesn`t swear oaths… didn`t before, at least…_

Focusing on what she was doing, Sansa dried her tears and started patching up her wounded warrior, wrapping bandages firmly around his shieldarm, frightened of the wound gaping revoltingly through his blood-soaked sleeve, uncovering the pinkish red muscle-tissue within, scared at how heavy his arm felt when he lay completely limp like this. _Please don`t die._ One of the lads beside her had begun glancing sideways at her as if he wanted to say something when Brienne suddenly descended on them, looking worried but strangely collected.

“We just need to stem the blood for now, put pressure on – use his belt – and hold his arm high. He`ll need a proper clean up later,” she murmured, before effectively moving on to the myriad of cuts and wounds covering Sandor’s body. Sansa knew that of course. Even though it`d never been expected of her to do this herself, she had been tutored in how her future lord husband should be treated if injured. But it felt comforting to have someone who obviously had some practical experience taking over. Even if she would have given almost anything for a maester right now…

Brienne actually seemed relieved when methodically dragging up Sandor’s tunics to uncover his muscular abdomen and chest, finding a long slash down his ribs, smaller cuts and nicks and a mass off heavy bruising, but no gut wounds. Until she looked at his other side and hissed at the hard blue area of swollen flesh. 

“Don`t give him anything to drink if he wakes up… he might be bleeding inside,” she said, glancing at Sansa, suddenly looking slightly anxious, like she was wondering how her statement would go down, but continuing on. All too kindly. “He`s badly hurt, Sansa… Mostly due to blood loss and depending on how bad his side really is. I don`t know if… you know… he might die, even if…” she trailed off, glancing unhappily down at her hands and then at Sansa again.

Sansa just looked quietly back, finding no words in answer. Her fear of losing Sandor overwhelmed everything, threatened to consume her whole even though her sense was howling at her that she`d thought him already lost, that she _knew_ she didn`t have any guaranties. Brienne ended up patting her shoulder awkwardly, a weary smile on her lips and compassion in her eyes, before getting up. 

The lads’ purposeful movements shook her out of her petrified musings. They`d continued to wrap Sandor up in bandages, having apparently sucked in every word Brienne had said; one of them was holding his right leg high as the other tied the fabric off, learning fast and obviously used to wounded and dead men, if not to treating them. Sansa lifted Sandor’s head gently into her lap and started giving directions as she found his pulse again, consoled by the weak, rapid fluttering under her fingertips. She couldn`t help wondering what life had been like for these boys during the war. What had two lads of - what? Twelve? – lived through to gain that unimpressed look in their eyes? Their lack of reaction to the scene around them rang of a damage not necessarily visible on their bodies, their faces. _Sandor said he`d killed his first man at twelve…_ Despite all her own challenges, she`d at least been spared this side of warfare before. The nearest she`d gotten was her father’s arrest, the riot and Sandor showing up in her bedroom in King’s Landing. _The Mother’s hymn..._ Stroking his hair and wanting to kiss him so intensely despite the blood on his lips, cursing the social rules that made it impossible for this to be a wife tending to her injured husband, she ended up silently doing something she hadn`t done in over a year. Sansa prayed. Sincerely. To all seven of them.

She prayed to the Father to remember Sandor’s sacrifice when judging his life, she prayed to the Warrior for giving his soldier victory over death, to the Crone to guide his way back to her, to the Smith for giving him extra strength to recover. And then paused, unsure who she should choose, but ended up praying to the Stranger first. A desperate prayer for giving his outcast son another chance this time as well, releasing him from his clutches. She continued by feverishly begging the Mother to grant Sandor mercy, give him her love and compassion once more. _Please, he needs it._ And ended it all by praying to the Maiden to remember the innocence lost to all the children of war, even those who`d grown into warriors in turn, asking her to give them her blessing even when their innocence was beyond rescue.

It felt sort of nice, praying again. Like a mental lifeline… but also strange… She`d always followed her mother’s religion, up to the time when her life had twisted and turned until she couldn`t find it in her to continue to ask for a help that was never granted. And look where lady Catelyn had ended after a lifetime of faithful prayers… _I need a heart tree, they… listen…_ But in lack of that, she needed to do what she could.

“We need stretchers, and find blankets in the saddlebags, cloaks not too damaged by blood and cuts, anything to keep him warm,” Sansa commanded a lad approaching from behind her. She was speaking to Gendry, she realised, and two boys with the fuzz of attempted beards on their faces and crossbows in their hands. “And someone remove the bodies from the road, at least.”

Ser Gendry scowled at her, but nodded at the two boys who`d finished bandaging Sandor’s wounds, sending them and the lads who`d come with him in the general direction of the forest. Sansa couldn`t find it in her to care what happened to the dead men, but was grateful when Gendry returned with woollen blankets and a fur-lined cloak she could wrap around Sandor’s still form.

“Where do you live, ser?” she asked when he just stood silently watching her wrap the fabric around Sandor. “You surely haven`t travelled far without supplies or equipment?” She looked inquiringly at him. He shook his head, so she continued. “We need somewhere to stay, somewhere to tend to our wounded… Brienne mentioned something about an innkeep at least. Is there an inn not far from here?” 

Gendry glanced searchingly at her face again. “Well, if you`ve got silver I bet Jeyne would let you stay for as long as you want. Food`s even better payment,” he muttered, before suspicion clouded his eyes again. “But you`ll fulfill our agreement or we`ll soon have new corpses decorating the trees around the crossroads.”

Somehow the threat sounded hollow, but his warning was clear enough. Sansa just nodded at him, thinking that she needed more details from Brienne, Ser Gendry’s King’s Landing accent made her feel worried somehow. And the way the strange knight held her gaze rudely for a moment too long before turning his back on her was a little unnerving, too. 

Stroking Sandor’s pale, cool face, she thought about all the pitfalls they could end up in, and how to avoid them. But what soon concerned her even more was the cold and Sandor’s damp clothes beneath the blankets, even though they were made of wool and _should_ keep him warm even when wet. And they just couldn`t strip him and dress him anew in this state, simple as that. 

So Sansa found herself clinging to the hope his weak pulse represented, and looked around the fighting ground properly for the first time, suddenly realising exactly how Sandor had worked up his reputation as an incredibly uncompromising and dangerous fighter. Dead men, lightly and heavily armoured alike, were being laid in a row. Severed body-parts still lay on the ground, the mounts flocking together, bloodied and limping, reins hanging down, over necks or twined around front legs, seemingly too exhausted to want to run away. Glistening intestines were coiling out of abdomens, half-eaten gore spread between weapons and bits of clothing, armour, the dogs trotting amongst it all on the red and white ground. The small hairs on her arms were standing on end looking at the carnage Sandor and Jaime had made out of their pursuers. _Jaime!_ Shame slammed through her. She`d more or less forgotten about the man who`d actually _sworn_ his sword to her.

Balling a frayed cloak that had been blue once into a pillow, she put it gently under Sandor’s head and reluctantly left his side to walk over to where Brienne was tending to Jaime. The Lion was propped up against a saddlebag and conscious, even though he looked quite the worse for wear. His golden hair was plastered to his head with blood, seeping through the bandage wrapped around his temples. He was bandaged several other places as well, new bruises colouring his face, his breathing laboured as Brienne was tightening more bandages around his waist, the one underneath already soaked through with blood. He grinned tightly at her and winced in pain when he tried to focus on her face - and Sansa was completely taken aback by the strange feeling of affection that surged through her at the sight of him. A Lannister if ever there was one, the Kingslayer himself, who`d just fought down her enemies, giving her his life to pay his family’s debt, if Brienne and herself hadn`t returned. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, smiling slightly back at him.

“My pleasure,” Jaime answered between dry lips, trying to incline his head but ending up groaning in pain instead. “How`s Clegane?” he breathed after a pause.

“Alive,” Sansa replied, her voice shaking, and had to fight down a new rush of tears. Jaime looked at her with understanding, but his pained grin turned wry nonetheless.

“Seven hells, he fought like nothing I`ve ever seen before. And I`ll be sure to lay low if he ever wakes up to find you two have disobeyed every order and returned here. Could well have met fifteen charming hedgeknights filled with bloodlust after slaughtering us, and our efforts would have been for nothing.”

Sansa stared open-mouthed at him, feeling like an idiot up against such simple and crystal clear logic. Brienne looked shamefaced to the ground, and Jaime snorted something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“I`m sorry, I didn`t think of that… I only wished to come to your aid. We had crossbowmen with us and approached through the woods,” she said, making Jaime smile tiredly at her.

“Children with crossbows, do you mean? Can they even reload without being three to a bow? Approaching through the woods, when your enemy has hounds capable of tracking us down from the mountains to the Trident?” he asked, sounding like a maester tutoring a particularly dense student. “You could have gotten every child here killed for sport. Tell me, Sansa, how would that have justified trying to save two old bastards’ hides? And as you well know, _I`m_ not the most conscientious of men…”

Sansa’s cheeks burned in shame. Imagine not taking into account what would have been the most likely outcome of the fight, how easy the hounds would have taken their scent… this was what she should be better at, being able to judge situations sensibly even if it involved her loved ones. But she didn`t regret her decision. Couldn`t. And never would. Which was also an important lesson for a ruler, one Petyr had already imprinted on her when teaching her to play the game of thrones; things don`t always go according to plan, but if you achieve what you set out to achieve then there is no room for regret. Hard but true. So she raised her head and looked at Jaime, straight into his green eyes.

“I`m sorry for not taking the full risk of my actions into account, but I would never have forgiven myself if I`d let this chance go. You two are worth more to me than the risk, even now. And I will not excuse myself further.”

Jaime looked straight back at her, measuring her very being, before very carefully dipping his injured head in respect. “Lady Stark,” he murmured, waiting for her nod in return before he lay back on the saddlebag and closed his eyes in exhaustion.

He`d opened _her_ eyes, though. She needed to take responsibility, use her leadership. So she set to work determinedly. Gathering the rest of Gendry’s group of ‘men’ around her she started by telling a skinny girl to sit at Sandor’s side, taking his pulse regularly, before delegating tasks. Ser Gendry looked like he would like to balk at being deprived of the control, but nonetheless ended up nodding as she spoke.

“You two, go check on how the making of the stretchers are going, and you two over there go gather the saddlebags and equipment laying around here. Do any of you have knowledge of horses?” A dirty-faced youth stepped hesitantly forwards, dried his nose on his frayed sleeve and muttered something about how his father had been a horse-trader. She sent him off with a straw-haired girl to find out how the horses fared, which of them needed to be put down, and which only sported minor injuries or none at all. Horses would come in useful now. 

“Ser Gendry, if you could please continue overseeing the disposal of the bodies,” she started, swallowing her disgust before continuing. “Strip them of valuables and everything that can come in useful; weapons, armour, cloaks. Load it on the horses that can manage it, but spare the best four for carrying my men.”

The stretchers had been made with saplings along with canvas and ropes from tents, and looked quite sturdy thank the Gods. Jaime was lifted onto one first, gritting his teeth against the pain, and lay panting afterwards as Brienne folded blankets around him, a mixture of concern and relief on her face. Lifting Sandor needed two extra hands, Sansa steadying his head and wincing inwardly at every abrupt movement. Seeing him like this, seeing Sandor Clegane _helpless,_ frightened her more than she would have believed possible, but also released an intense need to take care of him. So she tucked him in and stroked his hair, even if he couldn`t feel it, and tried to swallow all her tears, bone-deep worry and nauseating panic at the thought of him dying under her hands. 

“M’ lady?” a voice said above her head. “Checked the horses, m’ lady. Two are already dead, two more are put to rest, three are injured but will live, six are in good enough shape for work and… then it`s the black courser, m’ lady…” the lad trailed off. _Stranger._

“What about him?” Sansa said anxiously. _Please let him be all right._ The lad wiped his runny nose and glanced nervously at her, obviously picking up the edge in her tone.

“Not in good shape, m’ lady,” he mumbled. “It`ll probably need to be put down, but we can`t come near it, and feathering it with arrows won`t do any good when the saddle and girth`s in the way of a clean shot at the heart,” he rushed, looking like he expected a beating for giving her the bad news. Sansa opened her mouth but no sound came out. _Oh, no… Stranger…_ The silence hung between them like a shadow, as she met the lad’s eyes, speechless.

“If you touch my horse, you`re dead.”

It felt like someone had thrown a bucket of bathwater straight in her face, the warmth spreading like a flush through her body as she gasped in relief, pure joy slamming down in her stomach.

Grey eyes were trying to focus on the frightened boy standing beside them for a moment more, before Sandor shifted his gaze a bit too slowly and all too erratically to her instead.

“Little Bird, what the fuck is wrong with your wings?” he mumbled hoarsely, his usual rasp low and flat when all the energy had left his voice. Sansa found herself crying and laughing at the same time, leaning over him and stroking his hair away from his face again.

“Nothing`s wrong with my wings, Sandor. I just… _couldn`t_ leave you… I couldn`t…” She put her mouth to his ear. “I love you,” she breathed so only he would hear, and kissed his temple softly before looking into his eyes again. He met her eyes dazedly, a shadow of a grin spreading slowly over his scarred, bloodstained lips, before his eyes closed once more.

Sansa felt her love for him fill her up entirely, exploding into such a high joyous energy even with a body that suddenly was screaming for rest and sleep. Stroking Sandor’s face gently she got to her feet.

“You heard my man, no one`s taking his mount down,” she smiled at the nervous lad at her side, and suddenly remembered her courtesies. “What`s your name?”

The boy was named Wat, and actually knew how to handle horses. Sansa was surprised to find all the mounts accounted for already bandaged as well as could be managed at the moment. Four surviving men were patched up and tied to the mounts like sacks of grain, two to a horse, and Guardian and Daisy were teamed with two other mounts ready to carry the stretchers between them. But Honour was dead, his front leg broken and hamstrung from behind. The frozen and bloody foam around his mouth a sad proof of how the gaping wound under his elbow and into his chest had hit its target in addition to all the other nasty cuts covering his front. Sansa stroked his pretty head and closed his unseeing eyes, feeling so utterly sad for the necessity of dragging animals into the humans’ bloody schemes. And that left Stranger.

He was limping heavily, not wanting to put weight on his left front leg at all, flattening his ears and turning his rump at anyone trying to approach him. His fur was matted by sweat, and his wounds gaped at her, their ghastliness only emphasized by his black coat, blood and dried lather crusting down his legs. And he looked furious, his lips pressed hard together, his nostrils curled, ears flat into his mane. Sansa didn`t feel sure at all, pain was obviously not likely to make Stranger more amiable, she reflected nervously, but she walked towards him nonetheless. If Sandor wanted his horse to survive, she would be damned if she let a bit of fear stop her from trying to save it.

She called Stranger’s name softly, trying to walk in an arc when approaching him, not looking directly at him as she cursed inwardly at the lack of an apple. He flicked his ears back and forth and even whinnied deeply at the sound of her voice, but kept turning away from her, throwing his head. So Sansa ended up trying something she`d seen Hodor do, playing with the young horses in the yard before breaking them in. Every time Stranger turned his rump towards her, she changed her arc, moving fluidly and placing herself on level with his shoulder, turning away every time he stood still or looked at her before approaching carefully again. She didn`t quite know what to expect, or if she should expect anything at all, but Stranger began topping his ears in tired interest until _he_ suddenly started turning towards _her_ instead. 

His abrupt deep exhale ending in a snort sounded like a sigh. And then the large, black mount all of a sudden just gave up and limped towards her, letting her take his reins without any fuss, rubbed his sweaty head against her back and followed her on three legs to where the rest of their party was making ready to leave. Their loot was loaded onto the horses that could manage it, the two shaggy garrons amongst them. Wat watched in wide-eyed awe as she removed Stranger’s saddle and covered him in a blanket, binding it in place, but came tentatively forwards with strips of cloaks to bandage the wounds on his legs, whistling as he took a closer look at Stranger’s swollen shoulder, a deep stab-wound penetrating the flesh above the leg he wouldn`t stand on. 

And so Sansa ended up leading a wounded, limping warhorse by the reins, walking beside her beloved warrior’s stretcher, keeping an eye on the large man shivering slightly under his blankets, as the ragged group of people started trudging towards Ser Gendry’s keep. Or inn. Some of the children called it the Inn at the Crossroads, some the Orphan Inn. It didn`t matter. What mattered was that she`d learned her lesson and acknowledged the risk of being found by more of Littlefinger’s men, but knew her decision to go there was the only one she could make. Unlike Petyr, she treasured the ability to separate beating heart from cool head, after all. They would have someplace warm to rest in a desolate location, a chance for her men to regain their strength. _A chance for Sandor to survive._ A place to summon Elder Brother.


	26. Stitching together the beginnings of a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the faint-hearted: medieval medical care.

Sansa felt like the road to the inn snaked through the trees forever, the all too obvious remains of dead men beginning to appear, hanging like frozen sentinels from the branches. Trying not to let her gaze rest on what the winter had preserved in various states of decay – some of the corpses all too fresh as well - Sansa kept her head high and tried to keep her eyes forward. The situation didn`t improve as the trees thinned and the woods gave way to snowy fields either, as gibbets stood evenly spaced along the road, animal tracks and scattered bones in the snow telling their sorry tale, the dogs trailing their party finding it immensely interesting.

But at least it only took their ragged party about an hour to reach their destination after that, with Stranger hobbling stiffly with every step behind her, his pain radiating out from him and straight into Sansa’s heart. Guardian looked ready to drop to the ground and die, too, walking with his head hung low beside the small girl holding his reins, dried lather and sweat curling his winter fur. His flanks were drawn up so much that he looked starved, but he faithfully kept carrying the front of Sandor’s stretcher - its long poles fastened to the saddles of her sweet rouncey and a small chestnut destrier plodding tiredly behind them.

Sandor lay shivering on and off under his blankets, his skin clammy and pale, all too cool to the touch. And looking so frighteningly beaten up whenever she lifted his blankets to check that he hadn`t bled through, seeing his bandaged and bloody state. It worried her that he lay so utterly still despite his shivers, his breathing disturbingly fast and shallow. But Sansa tried to take a kind of desperate comfort in that his bandages were only stained in _some_ places and his pulse was steady, at least, if rapid and weak. Jaime on the other hand was clearly worse, Brienne supporting him as he vomited over the side of his stretcher, clutching his bloodied side and groaning in pain whenever the retching subsided.

“He`s just taken a massive hit to his head,” Brienne muttered, nearly making it sound like a prayer, wincing as the nausea took hold of Jaime again. “It feels like hell when combined with the movement of the horses… and the sun… Nearly there, though…”

Sansa looked forward to getting Brienne alone. There was so much she needed to know about the place to which they were heading, about the people who lived there and the Brotherhood without Banners. Only the rumours of outlaws hanging Freys had reached the Vale. Some claiming they were the old king’s men, some claiming they were led by Dondarrion’s widow. Widow or not, some called her Lady Stoneheart, others Mother Merciless or even just the Hangwoman. 

As the only thing Walter Frey seemed to have achieved for his house with the Red Wedding was making his son lord of Riverrun - and all Freys the objects of disgust throughout Westeros - no one seemed dedicated enough to find out exactly who was responsible for the hangings anyway. It had surely never occurred to Sansa that it could be her late lady mother before Brienne told the most necessary parts of her story in the crypt. 

But the disturbing thing was that the corpses strung up beside the road were obviously not just Freys. They carried all sorts of colours, some bleached by time, sun and weather, but standing out nonetheless against the white landscape. Lions and her own Wolves hung side by side, badges of a dozen different Houses sewn onto breasts giving evidence of a ruthlessness that was quite simply frightening, if Brienne’s words hadn`t been enough. This was not just about revenge for the Red Wedding,or trials for the sack of Saltpans, this was someone taking down any man who _might_ have stumbled the wrong way into the path of the Brotherhood without Banners. Regretting her distraction from just looking straight ahead, Sansa felt increasingly sure that Lady Stoneheart had precious little of Catelyn Tully left in her.

Gendry was walking before her on the road leading the two horses carrying their captives. Another problem Sansa needed to solve. A small voice wondered why they hadn`t just slit the men’s throats at once, but she instantly shook the thought off, ashamed. How could she even _think_ such a thing right after being shocked by Lady Stoneheart’s persecutions? Ser Shadrich and the others had been different – that was a matter of survival. These men groaning in pain over the horses’ backs… there was no need to kill them, and Sansa insisted to herself on seeing them as valuable sources of information. To take her mind off it, she studied the man leading them.

It felt strange that he should belong to the Brotherhood. Somehow, she couldn`t imagine him stringing up pleading and crying men, making crow-fodder of random souls like Brienne, Podric and that knight – Hyle? - who had followed them to the gallows.

“Ser?” she started, watching how Gendry half-turned in response, something definitely masculine in the way he walked and held himself. “I wondered if you would care to tell me what has happened in the world during the last weeks? Do you have enough guests at your inn to be supplied regularly with rumours?” _Or do your fellow brothers keep you informed?_

Gendry stopped, moved both sets of reins over to one hand and the horses to his side as he let them catch up with him, Brienne taking over watching Sandor as well as drying sweat fromJaime’s face, her worry a mirror of Sansa’s own. The young knight glanced from Sandor to Sansa without saying anything, but his blue eyes met her with a directness he shouldn`t have allowed himself around a lady of her status. Not that she looked anything of the kind, of course, in her blood-stained squire’s clothes, worn boots and with stray strands of hair curling around her dirty face, her braid a mess. 

“You know, it`s common courtesy to answer when someone asks you a question,” she ended up saying when the silence dragged out between them. Gendry drew his eyebrows together and scowled at her, even though she`d tried to keep her tone polite. 

“I`m not stupid,” he muttered, glancing sideways at her.

“I didn`t say you were,” Sansa replied, wanting to add stupid like her sister would have done. Gendry obviously caught her meaning, though, but for some reason ended up snorting a laugh instead of sinking into sullenness. 

And Sansa found herself staring at him. He was definitely handsome when he smiled, but what had her gaping was the sudden likeness to… _Renly._ She remembered how she`d thought the king’s brother the most beautiful man she`d ever seen on their journey down the Kingsroad to the capital. _Gendry`s more handsome than beautiful, though…_ and much broader… she actually found him much more to her liking than the slighter framed Renly, even though Gendry didn`t have Sandor’s height and _massiveness._

But to be fair to the young man beside her, Sandor had honed his body as a weapon for nearly twenty years and had been incredibly large to begin with. _Wonder how he looked at Gendry’s age? My age…_ Men changed during their life. Some just grew into _real_ men, others fell apart. Or got incredibly fat. Like King Robert… who had been famous for his strength and handsome face earlier in life… and for his whoring and wenching in later years… and… Gendry’s accent was impossible to mistake. Sansa felt the fair hairs on her arms stand on end. _Doesn`t need to be a Baratheon just because his appearance can be stuck to them…_ But Sansa would have been an idiot for not taking the possibility into account. Gendry even looked a bit like Mya, who supposedly was one of Robert’s bastards, even though the old king never had acknowledged her.

Glancing sideways at what could well be the old king’s _real_ son, she found to her embarrassment that he was already speaking to her, and not even in a hostile tone. Telling her what he knew of the turning tide in the seven kingdoms.

Swiftly trying to suppress her blush and catch up on what he`d said, she found it not to be very much. But again, being used to Littlefinger’s vast and ever informative network of eyes and ears, Sansa knew she would always be frustrated by not having a full overview. But _something_ had clearly happened in Westeros since they`d left the Vale, though.

“Don`t know about you, but Targaryens and dragons and shit doesn`t sound like good news to me,” Gendry said, looking far ahead of them on the road. “There`s one conquering the stormlands like wildfire.” Sansa already knew that, but the next part was interesting; “And the ironborn are supposed to have another, coming _across_ the narrow sea with dragons blowing hot winds on their sails. Don`t know if it`s true, though. What in the seven hells would the ironborn have been doing over there anyway?” he looked questioningly at her, and Sansa found herself smiling tiredly back at him, trying not to pity his lack of imagination.

“Well, ser, they might just have gone to get their Targaryen and her dragons, like _you_ just said,” she grinned. It was as good a guess as any.

“Might have,” he mumbled, seemingly struggling to decide if she was playing a joke on him or not.

“Any news from King’s Landing?” Sansa asked, changing a subject that obviously wouldn`t gain her anything more than a grumpy forest knight again.

“Been some trouble with the Lannisters, some brother sent to take over for the old Lion got a crossbow bolt in his guts,” he started, before side-tracking into telling her that some of Jonos Bracken’s men had shown up on their way to Gulltown. A Lannister had obviously riled their lord immensely and they had drunkenly ended up toasting for the sweet combination of Lions and crossbow bolts. Sansa listened with half an ear. _So Kevan Lannister is dead…_

Sansa remembered Tywin Lannister’s younger brother and most trusted captain from King’s Landing. A corpulent, balding man with a yellow beard, seemingly polite as he danced with her at her wedding to Tyrion. And he must have been competent as well, as Petyr had been quite irritated at the news of his appearance to be Regent for King Tommen. Apparently mending the political rifts left by Cersei’s insane rule quietly and effectively - which didn`t suit Littlefinger’s grand plans at all, of course.

Something Gendry said tugged her back to reality, making her cheeks burn at this _second_ loss of focus. “I`m so sorry, ser, I didn`t catch the last thing you told me,” she said to him, making him glance quickly at her face. 

“I said that they rode for Gulltown with news for the overlord of the Trident from the riverlands. Apparently half the riverlords have gone insane and taken Riverrun back from their new lord,” he repeated, looking curiously at her. _Emmon Frey`s down, too._ “Seems to me Bracken needs a new alley, didn`t he turn traitor and join the Lions in the first place?”

“He certainly surrendered to the iron throne and the king’s peace, at least,” Sansa said, grateful for Petyr`s tutoring on the value of information, _and_ giving her free insight into his network. “And attacked the Blackwoods shortly after. But even though the Lions thought fighting Lord Blackwood was reason enough to stay away, it`s still curious that house Bracken’s banner was absent from the siege of Riverrun…” she continued, and just let it hang there. In part because she didn`t trust the strange knight who walked by her side, in part because it didn`t hurt to let him see her as well informed. _Harder to lie to someone you think might know more than you do._ The gossip was interesting though… 

Her bannermen had been as good as their word and were putting Frey and Lannister control alike in hot water in the riverlands. The most influential of the Lions had been taken down and Jonos Bracken _had_ been one of Hoster Tully’s most loyal bannermen, even if he`d yielded to Joffrey. That he apparently was having an argument with the Lannisters… why _hadn`t_ he taken part in the siege? And why would he send men to tell tales of the rebellion against a Lannister-granted rule to Petyr, whose title as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands had also been given by the Lions. Especially if lord Bracken himself was so ‘riled’ that his men toasted to Tywin and Kevan Lannister’s deaths? Small pieces in a great puzzle, there was so much to find out here.

Glancing over at the Lion in their midst, lying with his hood over his eyes on his stretcher as he probably didn`t have anything more to throw up, Sansa wondered how much Jaime knew - he`d been the one to take Riverrun after all. For him to be riding into _that_ hornet’s nest again by her side was going to be unpleasant in more ways than one. It actually made her gut clench on his behalf. For her own part, strictly speaking being a Lannister wife, having the Kingslayer and a former Lannister dog as sworn shields would cause trouble, too, even if she was already assured of the riverlords’ loyalty. It would be interesting to meet this fabled Elder Brother and find out what he had to add, what he could provide of resources. She needed to plan this carefully.

But first she needed to make sure her beloved brute and her personal Lion survived to follow her into whatever lay ahead. She smiled at Gendry, who looked like he was unsure if he should be sullen for her meagre contribution to their gossip or slightly apprehensive - remembering who he was talking to. _Yes Gendry, imagine that, I`m half Tully, I know my family’s bannermen, I know where my loyalties belong._ He obviously settled on just shrugging his shoulders and nodding his head to her before he turned and whistled to a youngster, ordering him to run in advance to get things ready for their arrival.

Sansa went back to watching over Sandor. He hadn`t moved so much as an inch, his black hair matted by sweat as he continued to shiver slightly. Sansa felt her fear for him well up again, and tried to tuck the ends of the fur-lined cloak laying on top of his blankets better up under his jaw line. Feeling half a week of stubble nearing a short black beard on the good side of his face scraping over her knuckles. She ended up adding her own cloak, as well, trying to cover his long body in the same number of layers, as she was sure she`d been taught it was important to keep him as warm as possible. _You`re not allowed to die, Sandor. Not now. Not before we are old and contented. I love you so much, need you too much, on so many levels..._

Sansa gaped as she walked towards the inn Gendry had spoken of, recognition slamming through her at a long distance. The Inn at the Crossroads. Where Lady had met her end after all that business with Arya. Or Joffrey, more like it. And Cersei. Pushing a sudden rush of sadness away, Sansa studied the inn as they neared. It was as she remembered: large, three stories tall and sporting a series of turrets and chimneys made of the same fine white stone as its walls, glimmering palely in the winter sun. For some reason its south wing had been built on heavy wooden pilings above the snow, which Sansa found strange now come to think about it. Her eyes followed the building over to its north side, where a thatch-roofed stable and a bell tower were attached to the building. Walking through the opening in a low wall of the same white stone, but overgrown with moss, the roads crossing in front of it, Sansa couldn`t be anything else than awed at being back at a place she`d last seen with her family, household and friends surrounding her. 

They were met by a flock of children in various states of undress despite the chilled winter air. More were watching from the roof of the stable and up in the large chestnut tree growing in the yard, loaded crossbows pointing at them until Gendry yelled for them to stop acting like frightened idiots. Smoke was blowing from one of the white chimneys and the smell of stew made Sansa’s mouth water and her body scream for sleep. A tall young woman with brown hair and a thin face emerged from the door, drying off her hands on her apron and looking less than pleased to see them, accompanied by a slip of a girl who watched them warily. 

The innkeep’s eyes swiped over all the exhausted mounts, loaded with loot and captives, narrowed at the stray dogs and the two stretchers, slid over Sansa but snapped quickly to Brienne’s face. Her mouth dropped open for a heartbeat before the expression of distrust was back on her face, but she came forwards to meet them, greeting Brienne and Sansa with measured nods before dragging Gendry aside and obviously demanding what in the Maiden’s mercy this was supposed to mean.

Sansa stroked Sandor’s sword arm through the cloaks and blankets and waited until Gendry was done defending himself. Strangest knight she`d ever seen, that one… It soon became clear, though, that he could be just as stubborn as he looked, and it all ended with heavy gesticulation in her direction before the innkeep waved irritably and a rush of children and youngsters came out to hold horses and help with unloading them, the loot carried inside. Brienne rolled her eyes and followed, ordering children loudly to cease stealing things. Which left Sansa to deal with the hostile innkeep after giving Stranger’s reins doubtingly to a half-scared, half-honoured Wat, hoping the stallion was too exhausted to kill anyone. 

“I don`t know _who_ you`re supposed to be,” the innkeep started sourly, “but I don`t rent out rooms for free, so if you don`t have silver I`ll take horses in payment. Food’s scarce if I can`t get them sold fast enough,” she continued, sounding perfectly unfriendly. “My name is Long Jeyne Heddle and this is Willow, my sister,” she ended up adding, nearly as an afterthought, pointing at the girl beside her.

Sansa bristled at the innkeep’s tone, but was simply too exhausted to care for long. Instead she smiled coldly at the woman.

“I`m ‘my lady’ to you, and I have silver, don`t worry,” she started, meeting Long Jeyne’s mistrustful gaze with a hard one of her own as she shifted her stance into proper lady posture. But she found she was hesitant to give her real name, as Brienne had avoided it when speaking to Gendry, and even though Sansa had the clear impression that he actually knew who she was, a small doubt made her close her mouth. _It never hurts to be careful…_ “My horses need tending to, clean stalls and fodder - and I don`t care if you don`t have much hay, winter-grass and shrubs will do,” Sansa rolled over whatever protests the innkeep was about to utter. “If you need meat, there are four dead horses lying beside the road a couple of hours from here, go get them. I understand the need for food,” she continued, glancing at the half-starved children staring at the commotion, “but the blood bay will not be served as long as we are here, do _you_ understand?”

Long Jeyne nodded slowly, still looking hostile, but apparently unsure how to handle this so-called lady dressed in dirty and bloody squire’s clothes, who obviously had taken the natural role as the leader of the group.

“The loot will not be touched, and my captives can be placed in humble rooms under guard.” Sansa glanced at all the crossbows around them as Brienne crossed the yard, taking up position behind her. “Which leaves arranging good rooms and care for my men, my guard and myself,” she concluded, making Long Jeyne glance at Sandor’s face for the first time.

Her eyes widened and a glint of naked fear crossed her features, obviously adding together Sandor’s scarred, infamous face with the sheer size of him, before she stared angrily first at Sansa and then Brienne.

“No way in the seven hells am I letting _any_ of the Hounds in under my roof - and I`ve heard stories about _this one_ and his Mountain brother since I was a child,” she said, her voice sharp and her eyes like brown pieces of flint, the lack of Sansa’s title prominent. Sansa felt cold rage slam through her, combined with a flash of panic. _He`s chanceless in this condition without care and rest._ But as she opened her mouth to defend Sandor heatedly, Brienne dived in instead. 

The warrior maid just straightened her shoulders and walked up a bit too close to Long Jeyne, big blue eyes piercing brown. “You remember me?” she started, pointing at her scarred cheek, her voice low and clear and all her usual insecurity gone. “I know you do. Remember who I killed the last time I was here? And the reason for me ending up tied to a horse, heading for the gallows, with you tending to me?” Long Jeyne looked hard as a nail, tilting her head up to meet Brienne’s eyes, but she swallowed slightly, glancing quickly at Willow who stood patting Guardian and looking warily at them. 

“Right,” Brienne said, still in that low, unnerving tone. “You owe me more than some poultice and wine for that. He`s gravely injured, and he`s neither his brother nor responsible for Saltpans – which _you_ know very well.”

Sansa looked at her sworn shield, stunned, watching how Brienne stared Long Jeyne down until the innkeep grimaced and turned on her heel. “As long as he doesn`t kill anyone or turn the common room on its head this time,” she grumbled under her breath and dragged Willow along as she started shouting commands to prepare everything as per Sansa’s wishes. _This time?_

Sandor got carried upstairs to a string of curious glances, ‘what`s happened to his face’ and ‘did someone burn his town too?’, and even children touching Brienne’s sword and armour as she worked with Gendry to get the stretcher into a large room. Placing Sandor gently onto a bed, they turned and went down again for Jaime, putting both men in the same room on Sansa’s order, needing to keep their small pack together right now. After getting their things brought up, and the boys carrying their saddlebags had left them alone with Long Jeyne, Brienne met her eyes before nodding at Sandor. 

“He`s in the worse state of the two,” she said, looking down at her hands before glancing at Long Jeyne who stood with her arms crossed.

“I know,” Sansa answered, looking down at Sandor’s still form. Before taking a deep breath and jumping into it, trying to force down her nausea and plain fear of tending to his terrible wounds, or just _look_ at them at all again. “I need help,” she continued, her voice picking up vigour. “Could you please bring up boiled wine and bandages?” she asked the innkeep, trying hard to be polite. “And two extra pallets?” 

It turned out Long Jeyne Heddle was impressively efficient, if not very pleasant. In no time at all she`d shown up with Gendry and two lads carrying pallets and equipment to sew up and wrap together Sansa’s two frayed warriors. She`d found and heated wine and even made a poultice of dried herbs and honey that Brienne nodded at approvingly.

They started by getting Sandor out of his clothes, boots and weapons. Gendry’s strong arms making it possible to gently lift Sandor up enough to cut his clothes off and his large and heavily muscled body stripped down to the skin, revealing a surprising amount of steel tucked away about his person. The severity of his injuries made it impossible for Sansa to even consider it an awkward process, as they all worked as fast and considerately as they could, tucking sheets around him as they worked themselves down his body. Only Brienne blushed like a sunset when they washed around Sandor’s hurriedly bandaged wounds with hot water and soap to remove most of the sweat and blood from the areas, Sansa folding thick, clean blankets over him before they removed the bandages from his shield-arm. 

Trying to remember everything any maester had ever told her, her septa’s stern admonitions and seeking Brienne’s eyes for support, Sansa washed her own hands before removing Sandor’s belt, wrapped over the last layer of bandage to create pressure. And felt like she`d received a hit to her stomach when she watched as the wound gaped towards her once more, looking frightening even with the blood stemmed, his skin so white up against the pinkish red muscle-tissue within. The pressure had worked, though, blood only trickled in small drops down his arm and no swelling to speak of would prevent her from sewing him up. Only her own nerves… and the anxiety of doing it wrong.

Long Jeyne frowned when she saw Sansa hesitate and something finally snapped in place in Sansa’s mind, a stubborn sort of determination to prove to this _peasant_ that a lady had her uses and worth, too. Taking deep breaths it was as if she could _hear_ Maester Luwin’s calm voice as he sewed up Mikken’s apprentice when he`d lost grip of the rod he`d been hammering into a crowbar, and the thing had ended slicing the poor lad’s leg. Arya had wanted to see him sewed up and the boy apparently thought it a great idea to impress the lord’s daughter with his injury, so Maester Luwin had patiently explained what he did, while Sansa and Jeyne Poole had pretended to be ready to faint outside the door to his study.

She started by cleaning the wound thoroughly with the wine, steaming nauseatingly from Sandor’s flesh as she poured. Jaime had woken up and groaned slightly at the sight, mumbling something about Clegane being lucky as hell in his unconscious state, obviously dreading his turn. Sansa sent him a glance of compassion, but as Brienne seemed at the end of her knowledge, she sorely needed his advice.

“I`m horribly sorry for asking you this, but… Jaime, do you know if I should sew it in two layers? I was taught that deep wounds often require… you know… to be stitched deeply first to fix the muscle tissue in place, and then sew the skin together on top?”

Jaime closed his eyes for a heartbeat before turning his injured head very, very carefully. Brienne was at his side immediately and more or less lifted him up to see, steadying him against her chest. “It`s a clean slice and angled down his arm so his muscles aren`t cut all the way through and his tendons seem fine, it will probably heal nicely if he doesn`t fuck it up by using his arm too soon,” he stated, swallowing slightly. “If you sew him up as prettily as you did his forehead, I think he`ll be fine if he can just hold onto life, my lady,” he more or less groaned before being carefully laid back down on his bed, panting with the strain and pressing a hand against his bandaged temple.

Not having any better ideas, Sansa did as was suggested by the most seasoned of them. She burned the needle red-hot on a candle to cleanse it, and let it cool off before taking Maester Luwin’s vast experience to heart, starting her stitches as far away from where the cut began, as it was deep. She tied off her precise stitches every quarter of an inch, slowly closing the deep wound until she left the last two inches open. 

“You should close it properly,” Long Jeyne said, her frown still in place.

“No,” Sansa murmured, cleaning the stitched-up wound with more wine, “It`s important to leave it able to drain itself, my old maester used to say, and he tended to be right about most things. You should have seen all the links in his chain. The only thing he didn`t manage to mend was my… a boy’s legs,” she said absentmindedly as she applied the poultice, smelling the queer mix of honey and garlic amongst all the other herbs.

The room had gone dead quiet around her, the lad passing her the clean bandages looked at her with wide, blue-grey eyes. “What`s the matter?” she asked as Brienne lifted Sandor’s heavy arm for her to bandage firmly.

“A maester isn`t normally something smallfolk come across, my lady,” Brienne answered quietly, looking sideways at her. Making Sansa feel the supreme fool. Of course not. And most of the smallfolk in _this_ inn were orphans having lost their parents to war, blood and fire. A maester would have been a heavenly creature of myth for these children.

“I`m… I`m so sorry,” she said to the four people accompanying them, but looking at the two boys especially. “I didn`t mean to sound condescending or to crow over the benefits of my status.”

“So you really _are_ a lady then?” Long Jeyne said, her hard eyes still holding mistrust. “Thought Gendry was just having one of his fantasies again, the way he tells stories about the last _lady_ he claims to have known, you wouldn`t have believed him either…” Gendry threw her a look of pure outrage and stomped angrily out the door, slamming it behind him, making Jaime cringe.

Sansa just sighed. “Well, Gendry was right this time at least.” And then continued patching up Sandor without further ado. 

It might be that Long Jeyne found some deeply buried respect for her social betters, but somehow Sansa was sure the slight change that came over the young woman had much more to do with Sansa caring for her men herself, _despite_ her title, and was humble enough to apologize for her thoughtlessness. She stood watching Sansa pouring steaming wine under the ragged flap of skin of the long gash over Sandor’s ribs, the white bones of his ribcage visible in strips where his muscles were peeled away from them. And as Sansa started to stitch the gash up, the innkeep suddenly walked resolutely over to Jaime and started checking him over, Brienne looking unsure if she should be grateful or distressed.

The two women ended up staring hard at each other over Jaime’s pained expression before Jeyne’s face suddenly broke into a quick smile, transforming her thin, frowning features into something approaching comely for an instant. 

“You saved my little sister from the other Hound, after all,” she said ruefully and started undressing Jaime methodically.

Brienne didn`t seem to know how she should respond, looking sideways at Long Jeyne’s slim hands unlacing Jaime’s tunic with practiced ease, but ended up meeting Jaime’s gaze, apparently finding something in his emerald eyes to console her.

“Wasn`t the Hound. His name was Rorge, nasty beast of a man, he just had Clegane’s helmet,” she muttered, but seemed to soften nonetheless.

Happy that they seemed to have reached some sort of cordial tone with the innkeep, Sansa tied off another stitch as Sandor suddenly groaned under her hands, stirring slightly. Her heart started thumping high in her chest as she stroked his arm gently, not sure if she wanted him to wake yet as she hadn`t even _begun_ on sewing up his leg, but needing him to come back to life nonetheless.

“Sandor,” she said softly, exposing all too much love for him in her voice, trying to sound more neutral when she continued. “Are you awake?”

Grey eyes opened slowly, not quite able to focus on her as she bent over him, beginning to lift his bandaged arm to his face, before he grimaced in pain and groaned slightly as he let his hand fall down onto the mattress again. 

“Please,” she tried again, trying to meet his dazed eyes, suddenly anxious he`d gotten worse since the road. “Do you remember your name? Or approximately where you are?” 

He held her gaze for an agonizingly long moment before something flickered in his eyes. “Who the fuck doesn`t remember my name hereabouts, Little Bird?” he mumbled hoarsely back at her. She smiled at him in relief, thinking ruefully that he didn`t quite know how right he was.

“How do you feel?” she asked, holding a clean bandage gently to where she`d stopped sewing him up, making him shift slightly.

“Like a trampled pikeman on his way through all seven hells,” Sandor answered, a bit too slowly, like he needed to concentrate to wrap his tongue around every word. Sansa’s smile evaporated.

“Oh, Sandor, I`m terribly sorry, but… I need to sew you up quite some more,” she murmured at him, before adding, “We`re at the Inn at the Crossroads.”

He started laughing softly, like the sound just rumbled in his chest without the strength to get properly out before it ended in weak coughing instead. “Bugger me… _fuck_ you for your flaming irony, Gods…” he mumbled breathlessly when he could again. Leaving Sansa pretty confused as to what he meant, a small part of her screaming for him to stop insulting the Gods when lying gravely injured, another smaller, truly treacherous, part whispering _what Gods?_

He must have registered her distress on some level at least, because she felt his fingertips stroke her thigh. “Just sew me up Sansa,” he murmured, still sounding so dreadfully worn out and out of breath, gingerly touching his swollen, blue side with his right hand under his blankets, his face contracting in pain. “Seven hells… look like shit, I suppose?”

Sansa met his eyes and felt terrible, a slight nausea rising in her stomach at his own right conclusion. How much beating had he actually received during his life? His reputation had not come for free, certainly, and he`d obviously been in more fights and battles than he could remember. And in addition; considering what little he`d told her about his childhood, it didn`t exactly seem… sheltered… She ended up just nodding her head.

“Fuck,” he sighed, his voice so hoarse that Sansa winced when he swallowed heavily. “I need wine.”

“You`re not supposed to…” Sansa began, but stopped at the glance he gave her, suddenly feeling the years between them, that he`d lived his life without her for nearly thirty years, surviving on his own terms.

“What..? Get drunk?” he grunted, a flare of irritation apparently all he could muster through his daze.

“No, Brienne said I was not to give you anything to drink in case you`re bleeding inside,” she said in a small voice.

This time he snorted in full. “Fucking novice, that wench.”

“I`m right here,” Brienne said calmly on top of Jaime groaning that she wasn`t a wench.

“Bugger me, still alive Lion?” Sandor muttered, turning his head slowly towards Jaime’s bed, receiving a tired salute in return, before fastening his flat gaze on the Brienne. “Wake the fuck up, Beauty, maesters doesn`t often drag their soft arses into battlefields, they`re too flaming busy mixing potions so their lords can manage to take a shit,” he mumbled irritably, sounding breathless, making Brienne look stubbornly back at him. “And as long as no maester is there to fix you, it doesn`t bloody matter if you drink or not. Or it does, being blind drunk for a couple of days afterwards tends to be fucking heaven, right Jaime?” Sandor growled softly without any of his usual heat, ending up panting with the strain, meeting Sansa’s gaze a bit too erratically again. “Now, sew me up for fuck’s sake and get me some wine, or flaming water if that`s all you`ve got.” 

The slight pleading in his flat voice nailed itself to Sansa’s heart, the way his eyes closed in exhaustion and pain, like he couldn`t even manage to follow up on his feeble growls, scaring her. Long Jeyne looked at Jaime, who looked sheepishly at Brienne before nodding at the jug of water on the nightstand, and the innkeep shoved a cup of it into Sansa’s hand a moment later, placing her own hand over Sandor’s bandages in Sansa’s stead.

“Here, drink, you bad-tempered brute,” Sansa murmured at him and stroked his cheek gently. Making him open his eyes again to meet her gaze, a glint of something tender passing between them as she supported his head and held the cup to his mouth. “I`ll sew you up.” _My love._

He emptied two more before she went back to her needlework. It had been frightening enough to start sewing him up when unconscious, but as Long Jeyne went back to help Brienne and the lads with Jaime, she found herself dreading continuing. To stick the needle through his skin while he was in such a wretched state, Sandor studying her face with half-lidded eyes, felt ten times worse than she could ever have imagined. 

“I hate to make you hurt,” she whispered as she lifted the bandage she`d held in place over his ribs. She wasn`t sure, but she thought he half-smiled at her.

“Little Bird, I`ve been sewed up my entire life, just look at me – I look like a fucking tapestry made by a blind man,” he murmured, somehow managing to sound wry. “And I hurt too bloody much all over right now for mere stitches to fucking register.”

Sansa was about to protest and tell him his body looked nothing of the kind, that she liked his scars, but of course she couldn`t where others would hear. And how hurting all over could make stitches feel less painful was lost to her, so she just breathed deeply again and pushed the needle through his frighteningly cool skin. Sandor’s already laboured breathing changed, and he grunted as she stuck the needle in him anew, the muscles in his stomach tensing hard before he obviously forced himself to relax. But besides tensing on and off, he lay completely still, grey eyes locked to her face as she finished the last six stitches. His ragged exhale when she was done sounded like a sigh, though.

Getting him up so she could bandage around his chest and shoulder was another matter. Sandor ended up groaning in agony through gritted teeth, and needed to be held up, Brienne coming to their rescue as the two nervous lads started to buckle under the weight.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, and that was all the warning they got before he more or less fell sideways to retch over the side of the bed, Brienne’s strong arms straining to hold him steady. Long Jeyne was there in a flash, shoving a washbasin up under his face as he retched again, blood dripping down his abdomen from the sides of his newly closed wound. Sansa started worrying about it splitting open again as she held Sandor’s hair out of his face when he emptied his stomach again, until he ended up just spitting and swearing under his breath. 

“Finished?” she asked anxiously. He just nodded with his eyes closed, groaning deeply in pain as he leant back into Brienne’s arms. Seeing him like that, _leaning_ on someone without being dead drunk or at least threatening to kill the person, scared Sansa halfway out of her wits.

She used a clean cloth to wash over his face, before letting him rinse his mouth with water, spitting it down in the washbasin, placed beside the bed while Long Jeyne cleaned up the mess on the floor. 

“Take a look… m’ lady,” Long Jeyne said from scrubbing the boards on her knees, nodding at the washbasin. Sansa stared at her in disgust. “No really, he`s vomiting blood,” the innkeep continued under her breath, and moved the washbasin closer so Sansa could see what looked like a mass of brownish grains mixed into the vomit, whether she wanted to or not.

Sansa swallowed. And what was _she_ suppose to do with that? Seeking Brienne’s eyes, the large woman just shook her head slightly, and the worried look on Jaime’s face as he glanced towards Sandor’s bed was unnerving. Feeling powerless beyond belief, Sansa did the only thing she could, and that was giving him more water to drink and patch him up so they could lay him down again - before he started vomiting more from the pressure on his beaten up guts. 

The poultice obviously stung, as he tensed hard under her fingers, making drops of blood seep down his side anew, but she laid clean strips of bandage over the long row of stitches before bandaging him up again. 

That required her to lean towards his massive chest with his arm over her shoulder, rolling the bandage tightly over his skin, one of the boys continuing where she couldn`t reach before she received it again behind Sandor’s broad back. Round and round until the bandage was fully in place. More or less embracing him in a room full of people. Wanting so badly to hold him towards her for true, even though he smelled of blood and sweat. 

The intense feeling of loving him, relief that he was still alive at least, her fear for what his internal bleeding would mean and quite simply being helplessly _in love_ with him filling her until it felt like all her emotions were vibrating visibly between them. Like it was something everyone could see, even though she kept her face blank - and even though Sandor’s arm over her shoulder didn`t tighten around her like she was sure it would have done had they been alone.

The glint in his dazed eyes as Brienne laid him back down on the mattress was unmistakable, though. The way she soared on the sensation of his body against her once more shining through her own exhaustion. She smiled a bit too fondly at him before she could stop herself and tried to cover it up by washing her hands again, continuing on to his leg. 

It actually felt reassuring that Sandor could take the pain. It made it easier to do her job fast and accurately as the only response she got for pouring steaming wine down onto his wounds and perforating his skin was deep groans through gritted teeth, sharp inhales of breath and that his muscles tensed and relaxed repeatedly under her hands. Of course, Sandor didn`t seem entirely present, it was as if he was sliding in and out of his hazy state. But glancing over at Jaime she saw that he too seemed to grit his teeth and endure being tended to without any fuss. The smith’s apprentice back at Winterfell had screamed like a pig and Arya had ended up teasing him about it for months. But he hadn`t been a seasoned soldier either, and Jaime and Sandor were both veterans. 

She finished by stitching up the myriad smaller cuts covering him where steel hadn`t protected his body, covering them with poultice afterward but otherwise leaving them be.

“If only you`d been clad in plate and mail,” she murmured under her breath as she tied off another stitch. 

“Then I would`ve been dead now,” Sandor mumbled back, looking like he was hovering between sleep and sliding into unconsciousness. “Have you ever tried running clad in steel from top to toe, Little Bird? It`s a fucking nightmare… doesn`t guarantee you anything either - one heavy, well placed thrust and it punctures the same as anything else.”

Sansa looked at him, surprised. “But, you seem to have avoided cuts where your pauldrons and vambraces were at least,” she said, studying his arms, admiring the massive muscles even though it was highly inappropriate in so many ways right now. 

“Technique,” he muttered, sounding almost wry, before his eyes closed and he slid into something Sansa sincerely hoped was a deep sleep. 

There was nothing Sansa could do with the blue and swollen area on Sandor’s side except order heated stones wrapped in towels brought up, trying to ease the swelling and pain, unsure how deep he`d sunk into unconsciousness. The whole area felt hard to her touch and the skin around it was starting to look slightly mottled. She couldn`t do anything about his shortness of breath at all, but at least every cut that needed sewing had been stitched together, his bandages were done and his pulse was steady, if still too rapid and weak. 

Jaime was patched up and asleep as well, so Sansa turned to Long Jeyne and the lads. “Thank you so much for your help,” she started, smiling tiredly but honestly at them, meeting Long Jeyne’s hard eyes. “I need fresh wash water to clean them up properly, and then I have to ask… could you please see to our captives for me, Jeyne? Sew them up if they need it and give them food and water?” The innkeep just nodded and bustled the two lads carrying all the refuse out of the room, waving away Sansa’s ‘thank you’ with another quick grin. Might not be such a wretched creature after all, just disillusioned and tough as old leather.

The wash water arrived with Willow, who smiled sweetly and handed out clean cloths before leaving again. Brienne glanced at Sansa and started fiddling with a strap on the armour she was still wearing.

“Oh, Brienne, let me help you out of that before we wash them down,” Sansa exclaimed. “I`m sorry for not offering to help before, it`s just…”

“We needed to tend to the injured first, Sansa, don`t worry,” Brienne interrupted with a kind voice, but managed to sound awkward anyway. A second later it became clear why. “Um… I… I`ve never washed a… man before.” 

Sansa laughed as she quickly stripped Brienne out of her armour. “Well, neither have I, but we`ve seen our men naked before, now haven`t we? We`ll just have to pretend each other doesn`t exist.” 

Brienne laughed shyly at that and they set to work, pointedly not looking at each other, washing the rest of the old sweat and grime from their loved ones with steaming cloths, cleaning them up properly before tucking them in under their covers. Jaime stirred and murmured something to Brienne, but Sandor lay completely limp under Sansa’s hands. Trying not to think too closely on that, she found her brush in her saddlebag and brushed out Sandor’s hair, grinning inwardly at the thought of his indignant expression if he managed to add two and two together on waking up. _Please let him wake up..._

Being so tired herself that she actually felt drunk, her body too heavy and her mind screaming for rest now that things were starting to even out, Sansa had to force herself to order Brienne to watch over Sandor and Jaime before stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other down the stairs. Willow was serving stew and smacking curious fingers away from all the loot placed in the corner in a careless heap. Sansa smiled tiredly at her and thanked her for watching over their things, asking for it to be placed in a room, before walking out the front door and over to the stable.

A steady hammering was lifting a steely sound into the air from the back end of the stables, but it grew fainter as Sansa closed the stable-door behind her. Two of the hunting dogs had curled up and fallen asleep in the nearest stall, while Wat was bandaging up a grey horse in the next. A string of children came and went through the back door, carrying baskets with frozen winter grass and bundles of cut branches to put in the horses’ mangers, supplying each with a small amount of proper hay from the hayloft. The stable looked quite welcoming, actually, with fourteen horses munching hay, their body heat warming up the rectangular room, four girls brushing the mounts down methodically.

Wat watched her approach and knuckled his forehead at her before pointing to the last stall. She started towards Stranger as Wat hurriedly finished up the bandage he was tying, catching up with her as she stopped to pat Guardian fondly, a slightly awed expression spreading over his plain face once more.

Stranger flattened his ears and turned his rump towards the sound of approaching people, but Sansa was too tired to take it personally. “Stop it, you big brute!” she said sternly to him and gave him a gentle shove from the side, ready to jump away if he started flinging back-hooves at her. But he just moved haltingly over instead, topping his ears at her when she went into his stall, looking positively apologetic for threatening her, lowering his head and chewing on nothing. 

“Good boy,” she murmured, a bit confused at his obvious attempt at cooperating so thoroughly, and rubbed his neck like Sandor usually did. “Let`s see how badly you fare, my friend.”

It turned out Stranger thought he fared pretty badly. Nobody else was allowed in to help, so Wat ended up handing her what she needed over the wall of the neighbouring stall. Cleaning up the black courser’s legs was easy enough work, he`d mostly received cuts on the bony front-side of his legs, avoiding his tendons, but he had a quite nasty dog bite on one of his hind-legs. Pouring boiling wine on an aggressive warhorse’s wounds was out of the question, of course, but Wat came running with salted water instead, and that worked well, even if Stranger seemed to be in severe doubt about it all. 

Wat was graceful enough to instruct her on how to make the bandages sit tightly, as it turned out that bandaging a horse was something quite different from bandaging a human. She left his left front leg, though, as tending to his shoulder afterwards would ruin her efforts… but she thought it best to start with something manageable. Smaller cuts and tears were simply washed, smeared with poultice and left open, but one or two larger gashes should have been sewn up, and his shoulder… looked terrible. 

It was swollen beyond belief. Congealed blood like thick, red-black syrup surrounded the wound and had stiffened in lumps down his leg. He blew himself up to twice his size when she started washing it with saltwater, nodding his head in irritation and biting the air, but Sansa had the queerest feeling that he only meant it to tell her that it hurt, not to threaten her for real. So she ignored all his tantrums and gently scrubbed the wound clean, uncovering his pink flesh and making fresh blood flow down his shoulder as he moved irritably back and forth, kicking out with his hind legs in frustration and pain.

Wat pulled out something he proudly told her was a pig’s bladder with a wooden tip, used to flush out deeper wounds. Sansa filled it doubtfully with saltwater and gritted her teeth as she stuck the wooden tip down into Stranger’s stab wound, squeezing the bladder with all her might.

Stranger just exploded. He reared up as high as his tether allowed and smashed her hard into the wall, her head bouncing off the wood, the pain making her cry out and smack Stranger hard over his back just to make him _move,_ for Gods’ sake! He did, shivering, fresh sweat breaking out on his neck, snorting nervously as she stroked him gently again, regretting her outburst.

“I`m so sorry, Stranger,” she whispered, “but we _must_ clean you up properly, or else it will fester. You and I are the only ones he cares about – we can`t let him lose half of us, now can we?” Stranger flicked his ears at her, looking like he would prefer death to that _blasted_ pig bladder, and tensed as she neared his shoulder again.

It was an absolute nightmare to get the wound flushed out, Stranger completely losing it every time she neared with the dreaded tool in her hands. But she clung to him when he threw his massive body around and managed to avoid being smashed - hard, at least - against the wall any more. Finally she saw nothing beyond slightly pink saltwater emerging from the wound, instead of lumps of congealed blood. Both herself and Stranger were panting and sweaty, and even though Sansa saw herself defeated on the matter of stitching him, she felt good when she bandaged him tightly up, layers of clean cloth underneath to stem the blood. 

She cleaned and bandaged his last leg before brushing him down, taking care to stroke him gently with her free hand as she worked, and both felt and heard his exhausted sigh as he finally relaxed, beginning to eat his hay again. Wat gave her a bucket of water, and explained that his father had always given blown mounts salt in their drinking water, too, so he`d added half a teaspoon for each horse. Sansa thanked him tiredly and carried the bucket in to Stranger, patting him goodnight before finally, _finally_ heading for bed. A glance at the sun as she walked over the courtyard told her it was already afternoon, and she`d been fleeing and mending loved ones for a full day and a night…

But upon dragging her exhausted body into the common room she ran directly into Willow, who despite her slight frame and young age turned out to be stricter than a septa. Sansa found herself seated with a bowl of hot stew before her, her stomach rumbling happily as she was assured that Brienne had already been fed, Willow adding a quite pointed _m’ lady._ A ring of children stared wide-eyed at her as they listened to one of the boys from the stable enthusiastically telling the story of how _m’ lady_ had made the fiercest warhorse he`d ever seen meekly do her will. _Well, that just might be the biggest exaggeration in history…_ Seeing Long Jeyne emerge down the stairs, she waved her over.

“Please, tell me, do you know a place called the Quiet Isle?” she asked the innkeep quietly as the stable boy exclaimed something excitedly, waving his hands.

“Yes, m’ lady,” Long Jeyne answered, as if she had ragged ladies staying there all the time and Sansa hadn`t had to more or less bare-knuckle fight her for respect. “Their leader is supposed to be a great healer, people always try to drag their dying relatives there. Does m’ lady want me to send someone for him? To tend to your men?” 

Sansa had to concentrate her bone-tired mind to not let her surprise show. But of course, Sandor’s thigh and all… trying to clear her exhausted head enough to not make some idiotic mistake when she was served the best excuse in the world straight into her lap, she forced herself to smile and nodded.

“Yes, could you please do that for me? I`ll write you a note. How long do you think it will take before they`re back here, if he`s willing to come?” _Please let him be there, and not on some journey…_

“Couple of days, by boat,” Jeyne said matter of fact. “They`ll just have to stick it out until then, m’ lady.” 

Sansa ended up writing a short note, using charcoal on a strip of fabric, asking for Elder Brother’s help in tending to her injured dog and cat, signing it Lady Darry, drawing a black fish underneath the signature. If that didn`t get his attention nothing would. Long Jeyne’s blank expression as she received the note told plainly enough that the innkeep couldn`t read, which was reassuring even if the note wouldn`t tell her anything.

Eating the rest of the stew, Sansa glanced around the common room again. Really _seeing_ for the first time all the thin, threadbare children, their runny noses and dirty hair. Walking heavily up the stairs and into their room, she thought that she would use the next two days well: ensuring loyalty from these children who _might_ be informed of who she was would not only be necessary, but also a pleasure. The children needed something better than this; they needed proper clothes and someone who cared for them.

She greeted a yawning Brienne tiredly and kissed Sandor’s pale forehead before more or less falling down on her pallet beside his bed, too exhausted to undress. The last thing on her mind before sleep claimed her was that she should have got around to making Brienne tell her what had actually happened the last time she`d been here. And had Sandor been here since the journey south with King Robert, too? But her thoughts slipped and slid away from her, fading until she was suddenly riding Honour over the Trident. His hooves touching the water without a sound as she galloped flat out to find Elder Brother, a black fish with a small silver mockingbird tattooed on its back swimming as fast as she rode, right beneath the glittering surface of the river.


	27. Orphans and injuries.

Sansa couldn`t help thinking that the night _wasn`t_ dark and filled with terrors like the R’hllor worshippers thought, but with the moans of those who had lived through all too much beating. 

She was woken by Sandor’s soft groans when it was still only dusk outside, making her swim through her own exhaustion to get up and check on him. He was moving slightly in his sleep, his skin still cool and clammy when she felt his forehead. _No fever at least._ But listening to his agonized sounds was heart-breaking, ending up with her sitting on her knees beside his bed, stroking his hair and leaning in to kiss his mouth softly, feeling how he stilled. His right hand came slowly up to rest on her neck, not even pressing her towards him like he would have done any other time, just laying there as his lips met hers in a soft, quiet and utterly vulnerable kiss.

And a dam broke in Sansa, making large tears finally slide silently down her cheeks.

“Little Bird…” he mumbled against her mouth, his hand sliding limply from her neck as she raised herself slightly, sniffling and drying her tears irritably, wondering why in the Maiden’s name she was crying _now,_ when he was obviously still alive, conscious and had even _kissed_ her.

“I`m sorry, I`ve just been so frightened for you, I suppose,” Sansa whispered back, smiling through her tears. “Don`t you dare die on me,” she added sternly, meeting his grey, frighteningly dull gaze, making a shadow of a smile play across his scarred face before it turned into a grimace as he held onto his side, suppressing another groan.

“Just… hurts,” he muttered between clenched teeth. And then glanced at her, a strange wonder flickering in his eyes, belatedly adding hoarsely, “don`t worry.”

But she did worry. How could she not? He was quiet as long as he was awake, drinking water like he was dying of thirst and swallowing away his obvious nausea, refusing point blank her offer of getting him something to eat. But when he slid into sleep again, he moaned in pain, shifting without really being able to move at all, causing sharper groans as the motion disturbed his injuries.

Sansa couldn`t just lie there listening to him without trying to ease his suffering, so she ended up on her knees on and off as the hours slowly went by, stroking over him and kissing his scarred lips gently even if he didn`t react to it, holding him carefully. He finally seemed to find some rest, breathing a bit easier, slower, stilling until she started worrying over that instead. 

And then it all got worse. She heard him retching through her sleep and surprised herself with her own speed as she dived for the washbasin, managing to manoeuvre it under Sandor’s chin and hoist him up before he groaned and retched again. Brienne woke up and came to Sansa’s aid, helping her take care of him, getting a bucket to replace the washbasin and disposing of the vomit. She brought up wash water, and clean cloths, held him up when he emptied himself again and again, Sansa washing his face and neck, stroking his hair away from his face, giving him water, the both of them ignoring his unnervingly feeble swearing. 

But as the night went on Sandor continued to vomit, and slowly slid into some kind of semi-conscious state somewhere along the way, failing to respond at all when she talked to him, touched him, shook him gently. He ended up hanging completely limp in Brienne’s arms with his eyes closed as his body convulsed, Sansa drying off his face between the times he emptied his stomach of water and…

“Blood,” Brienne murmured when his retching subsided for a while, lighting a candle from the table under the window she`d just opened to let in fresh air and get rid of the stench of vomit. She looked more than simply worried as she placed the candle at the bedside, the flickering light making Sandor seem a ghost where he lay with his head in Sansa’s lap. “He`s still vomiting blood.” 

He`d started shivering slightly again, his skin milky white, cold sweat trickling from his forehead if she didn`t keep wiping his face gently with the cloth in her hand, his covers drenched through and changed by Brienne. And she couldn`t get him to drink. Or respond. At all. Not even in groans when he was moved. Her large, fearsome warrior was just fading quietly away under her hands as his body at last stopped fighting, and gave up. _The only one who could take the fight out of Sandor Clegane is the Stranger himself…_ It was simply unbearable. 

Meeting Brienne’s exhausted gaze, the both of them having fought for his life the whole night, Sansa felt her entire body start to vibrate with a sorrow so deep that she felt like she would never resurface. Refusing stubbornly to call it grief yet, she stroked his neck gently with her fingertips through his hair, feeling its silkiness against her shaking hand as she just couldn`t keep her walls up anymore, couldn`t find any more strength – and simply gave over and wept for true. Feeling so utterly, dreadfully powerless.

Weeping in fright and despair, she ended up cradling his head in her lap as she sobbed at the way he was sliding away from her no matter what she did, crying in exhaustion and desperation, needing him to please wake up and insult someone, growl and swear or kiss her, grin wryly at her, hold her tight and _fuck_ her. Toast with her, live with her. Just live. _Live!_

Brienne started stroking her shoulder clumsily, but there wasn`t much to say, no comforting words to give. 

“Please, help me move him so I can lie beside him,” Sansa wept, not even caring what that sounded like. _If he dies, he will die in my arms._

But Sansa heard the large woman sigh in understanding anyway before she gently moved Sandor over, first his legs and then his upper body, gently lifting his head out of Sansa’s lap before picking her up and placing her beside Sandor’s right arm, tucking them both in. And then stood there, looking down at Sandor’s face, at Sansa sobbing helplessly with her arms around him.

“I liked being your imaginary little sister,” Brienne whispered to Sandor’s huge form at last, so low that Sansa wasn`t quite sure she`d heard it at all, watching through her tears as Brienne touched his shoulder lightly before blowing out the candle. 

Leaving Sansa to her exhausted grief. She tried to pray again, but the words stuck in her throat. Having said it all before. Having nothing more to say to the Gods that she couldn`t find in her heart for true anymore. Her whispers were for Sandor instead, telling him the things he needed to know whether he came back to her or walked into the Stranger’s embrace with her arms still around him. 

Holding him like her arms alone held him back in life, feeling the Stranger’s cold grip like a third shadow together with them, she let her tears run free as she whispered how much she loved him, how much he`d come to mean to her in King’s Landing. Whispered her regrets for not just going with him when she`d had the chance, knowing he`d been too messed up for that, but this was worse. So much worse. Losing him now was just too cruel to bear. 

So she continued to touch him, kiss him, stroke his hair, wipe his brow, check his all too weak pulse. Continued to whisper about how she`d dreamt of him in Tyrion’s stead, how her dreams had changed in the Vale, how she`d thought of him, fantasized about him. How the sight of him in the crypt had filled her with such relief. How good his body felt against her own, how she couldn`t imagine continuing without him. How he was hers. Her beloved. Hers alone. 

His shivering subsided slowly, his skin still clammy, but the cold sweating abated, his lips dry when she kissed them. Until he lay completely still in her arms. It took awhile before she noticed, and then it felt like someone had punched her hard in her stomach, nausea rising like a wave as her whole body prickled in some sort of numb denial, realising in terror that his chest didn`t rise. _No._

“No, Sandor, _please,_ ” she gasped raggedly, unable to breathe, her throat burning as she raised herself up on her elbow, trying to see through the darkness.

And sobbed hard in relief when he drew in a deep, shuddering breath, the first she`d heard him draw all the way down into his lungs since she`d found him on the road. He turned his head towards her, dragging his injured shield-arm in her direction, making her instinctively reach out and help him lift it over to rest at her waist, a weak groan escaping his lips.

Sansa didn`t know if she should laugh or cry, so she did something of both, lying down again and pressing her face into his neck, kissing him until she found his weak, fluttering pulse against her lips, not caring one whit if he ended up retching all over her as long as he was alive. For an hour, and an hour more. _Please…_

She couldn`t remember falling asleep, but awoke in the twilight before dawn, dim light filling the ice-cold room. Sandor lay breathing slowly beside her, too shallow to be normal, but so much better than he`d been. Gently lifting his injured arm off her, watching how he turned slowly to lay flat out on his back, she kissed his cracked lips and reluctantly got out of bed, knowing she couldn`t be seen like this with her sworn shield come day break, no matter how wrong it felt to leave his side. 

Jaime had moaned from time to time during the night, too, but mostly just slept, snoring slightly, between Brienne’s checks where she had woken him up every few hours, because of his head-injuries. Glancing towards his bed now, she saw him lying on his unhurt side, his sinewy muscular arm over the edge of the bed, holding Brienne’s hand. Smiling to herself at that, Sansa tucked Sandor’s blankets around him again before closing the window and lying down on her pallet. Falling asleep immediately.

She was woken anew by a timid tap on the door, and opened her eyes to watch Willow walk in carrying a cloth-covered tray. Sansa blinked at her, trying to clear her tired head, seeing bright morning sunshine flood the room through the window, dimly registering Brienne yawning on the other side of Sandor’s bed.

“Good morning, m’ lady,” Willow smiled, setting the tray on the table and deftly removing the cloth to reveal a jug of water, a rusty-red clay pot, cups, bowls and spoons, but no bread.

“Good morning to you, too,” Sansa replied and raised herself from her pallet, staring in horror at the grime and brownish flakes of dried blood staining her sheets and pillow. “Gods, I must look a mess,” she gasped, concentrating hard on not turning to look at Sandor’s bed and the possible evidence of her sleeping there.

Willow laughed. “You do, m’ lady,” she replied honestly. “Do you want me to prepare a bath for you in the next room? I could get your clothes cleaned, too.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, feeling the need for a proper bath like never before, relief flooding her when the girl just smiled and turned. 

“I would like one, too,” Brienne added, relief strong over her features as she looked at Sandor’s sleeping form before stretching powerful arms as she walked over to the tray and lifted the lid from the clay pot. 

Even though Brienne’s reaction should have told her Sandor was still with them, she nonetheless felt a hard stab of anxiety when she looked at him and found him exactly as she`d left him. He lay sprawled on his back with his head turned her way, his good cheek facing up, white as a sheet against his black hair, brow and beard. But after an agonizing second, she managed to pull herself together and use her senses, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the slight movement of his fingers beside his head on the pillow as he slept.

She adjusted his covers even though it wasn`t needed, and stroked his hair in that strangely comforting way. For her, not for him – lost to the world as he was right now. Meeting Brienne’s gaze over the beds, she saw her relief that he was still in this world at all, mirrored in her expression. 

Willow tried a clumsy curtsy and closed the door behind her as Sansa was passed a bowl of steaming broth with lots of meat, but precious few vegetables floating around in it. Trying to trust that Long Jeyne had followed her order about not serving them Honour, Sansa ate the strange breakfast without complaint, knowing that she should be grateful for an opportunity to eat well at all.

“Ladies, how very unkind of you to serve yourself and let a poor man starve,” Jaime voiced sleepily from his bed, making Brienne run to fetch him food, stuttering that she hadn`t known he was awake yet. Sansa smiled to herself and got to her feet, feeling so stiff and sore that she wondered for a second if she`d fought someone yesterday, too.

Jaime, it turned out, looked exactly as battered as he was. Half his face was one massive bruise, spreading from his cheekbone and down to his jaw, a nearly black streak curving beneath his left eye, the rest blue and purple, though not terribly swollen. The green areas on his right cheek after the fight at the mountain inn still visible in colourful contrast, completed by the bandage around his head that had seeped through over his left ear. And yet he _still_ managed to look handsome.

Sansa shook her head ruefully at that, as he struggled up in a sitting position, cringing slightly in pain and thanking Brienne for the food. Then she gently sat down on his bed with her bowl in her lap and smiled at him.

“How do you feel today?” she asked Brienne’s golden knight, sitting bare-chested with his sheets up to his waist, bandaged up to his chest, bruised and stitched – and wondered why in the Maiden’s name it felt completely natural and not awkward at all. 

“Ah, well, since you ask so kindly; like shit,” he answered, his grin strained. “My head will probably have to be cut off, no use keeping it in this state, my… Gods help me, _fair lady._ ”

Sansa laughed at him, feeling how her cheeks were stiff with dried blood and grime from both horse and human. “Just snap your fingers and I`ll have it arranged, good ser,” she grinned back at him, making him snort, and then wince. “No, really Jaime, I`m so sorry for my lack of attention yesterday, I was so focused on Sandor that I completely forgot my duty to you.” 

He just waved it away, swallowing a large spoonful of broth. “Don`t think about it. It was Clegane’s turn to be fussed over by a high-born lady,” he said lightly before meeting her eyes quietly. “How bad is he?” 

“I don`t really know. His night wasn`t good,” she answered, hearing how her voice faltered into a quaver. “It was terrible, actually. I really thought he… died… for a moment… but he has stopped vomiting blood, and his breathing seems better.” Jaime looked at her with compassion and glanced towards his sleeping brother in arms. “And I sent for Elder Brother yesterday, he`ll be here in a day and a half if all goes well,” Sansa continued, and when the Lion looked alarmed she hurried to add, “don`t worry, Jaime, I was more or less handed the opportunity, no one knows anything.” 

“Right. No one can blame you for being inefficient,” he sighed, looking down in his broth. “I think I`m going to follow Clegane’s example and sleep some more, as eating seem less of a good idea than I thought.”

Brienne helped him to lie down again, gritting his teeth, not half as cheeky as mere moments before, and Sansa closed the shutters, leaving the room in semi-darkness, leading Jaime to thank them both fervently. Picking up their saddlebags, Sansa and Brienne left the room to search for their baths, having made Jaime swear to bang the wall if Sandor’s state changed in the slightest - and ran straight into two lads of about ten and twelve years of age, each carrying two steaming buckets. 

“What`s your name, boy?” Sansa asked the smallest of them.

“Alyn, m’ lady,” the lad more or less squeaked 

“Alyn, would you do me a favour and watch over my men while we bathe? Just sit quietly and wait until we return, but call or knock on the door if they get worse or need anything,” she said to the anxious boy, smiling gently at him.

Sitting in hot water up to her shoulders after chasing ragged children out of the next room, scrubbing her body from top to toe with her own rose-scented soap, Sansa marvelled at how dirty she actually was. After rinsing her tangled hair, washing it anew and rinsing it once more, the water had turned a disgusting foggy grey, making her get out of the pleasant warmth in pure revulsion. Brienne seemed to feel the same way and they both stood drying their hair when Brienne suddenly glanced sideways at her.

“I`m really glad Clegane didn`t die, Sansa,” she said honestly. “He`s quite sturdy.”

Sansa laughed softly at her choice of words. “Thank you, yes – but so is Jaime, apparently.”

Brienne smiled shyly. “Um… now you`ve seen him without a shirt, what do you think?” she blurted, and turned a magnificent shade of pink. 

Sansa grinned widely despite her shaky state after last night, loving how Brienne had loosened up more and more with their pillow-talk. “He looks incredibly good, Brienne, always has – with or without his shirt. Strong and fit and handsome. Just like the perfect storybook knight you`ve always wanted.”

Brienne blushed even more, pleased and embarrassed, smiling radiantly at Sansa as she started pulling on clean clothes. “Clegane is quite impressive you know,” she offered back, “I`ve never seen any man that massive… so _large_ that he actually makes me feel a woman,” she said muffled from within her tunic, continuing on about how she`d never seen his brother, though, when popping her head out at the top. But Sansa had already broken down laughing, all tiredness washed away.

“You can`t _say_ that, Brienne, Gods, you`re even worse than me!” she managed, laughing even harder at Brienne’s confused expression before it dawned on her what she`d just insinuated.

“No! I didn`t mean to… Sansa, _my lady_ … please! I meant that I`ve never seen any man so heavily muscled and… and… broad you know, not… I… he`s like… like a _destrier!”_ she gasped in relief, obviously thinking she`d reached solid ground.

Instead Sansa just doubled over, laughing even more, trying hard to pull herself together, but instead ended up trying to explain between fits of giggles. “Oh Gods, Jaime told me mere days ago not to compare men with horses, and now Sandor`s a destrier… _Brienne!”_

Brienne caught on and amazingly enough started laughing with her, until the two of them were gasping helplessly for air. Brienne adding that she at least was happy to have chosen a high class breed instead of just comparing him with a mere drafthorse, making Sansa wonder if they should make a study of it and compare all men they met from then on with horses just to make Jaime completely lose it. It felt so nice to just laugh like that again, carefree for some minutes, like they had their own little bubble of joy in the midst of all the suffering, a lifeline to save them going insane with worry. 

Putting on a dress again felt strange. Ornate. Even if it was just the same simple, blue dress with fur lining she`d left the Gates of the Moon in. It was slightly creased after lying at the bottom of a saddlebag for so long, and she found a stain on the back of her skirts. _Probably from when Sandor pretend-fucked me…_ The thought sent a tingling rush of lust down her spine, the image of how he`d looked into her eyes and then buried his face in her neck as he`d released together with her - _through our clothes! Gods, he must have been so incredibly aroused, a grown man and everything_ \- winding her up no end. Even more so because she hadn`t understood that he`d peaked then. _But I would have known now..._ She was struck by a sudden vision of how he would look releasing inside her instead, the feeling of his manhood pressed towards her opening, the head of him slowly sliding into her, how he would groan as she let him take her like she should have done before all this happened… And felt herself starting to ache for him in dull thuds between her legs.

A bit surprised about being assaulted by her own needs like that, especially when the man she wanted to take her pleasures with lay more or less unconscious in the next room, she brushed and braided her hair before going to check on him. Finding her two warriors in deep sleep, both breathing and both covered in their blankets, Alyn stationed faithfully on the floor. The boy had obviously found his task easier than carrying bathwater to and fro, but also seemed proud to have been given the guard-duty over _m’ lady’s_ men, so Sansa left him where he was, Alyn solemnly promising to notify her of any changes.

She sent Brienne to go through their loot and check on their captives with word that Sansa would be far too busy to see them personally, knowing the longer she let them stew the more they would come up with to try to negotiate themselves out of the noose they felt tightening around their necks. _Information is gold; more information is better than gold; but true information is priceless._ Descending the stairs to the common room, she clearly looked much more a lady, clean and in a dress, as Long Jeyne hurried to curtsy as she saw her, the children in the room trying to imitate her or knuckle their foreheads with varying success.

“Good morning, m’ lady,” Long Jeyne said. “What can I do for you?”

“It`s more a matter of what I can do for _you,_ ” Sansa answered with a smile. “I was wondering about helping you with the children… if you would like me to?” 

Long Jeyne’s eyes had taken on a guarded look, but she glanced around at all the young faces watching them with something akin to hopelessness before turning and waving Sansa to follow her into the kitchen.

The room was spacious, and filled with everything a cook would need to prepare meals for a large amount of people, kettles and pots in every size hung from the ceiling, whisks, stirring-spoons and ladles stood lined up in large containers, knives hung from their hoops in rows on the wall, boxes and tins presumably containing herbs on the shelves. Everything to make a proper feast. Except food. Sansa saw the wood-grouses Gendry had been carrying strung up side by side with three rabbits, dressed and plucked, ready for the pot, and the horsemeat would probably be stored somewhere. But otherwise the kitchen was free from the usual piles of bread loaves, vegetables and eggs, baskets standing empty, the stone oven cold.

Long Jeyne leant against a bench and crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “I know full well, m’ lady, that these children and youths are not as well taken care of as I would have wanted. But winter is here, and we simply don`t have any more. Half of them will probably die before spring arrives. _I_ might die before the earth gives us new growth. And that… makes it hard to really… bond. Care. Because it hurts too bloody much,” she said with equal amounts of hostility and unshed tears in her voice. “I give them as much of myself as I can, as much of myself as I can give without being ripped to shreds, so don`t come here judging me from your quick glimpse into our world, _m’ lady._ ”

Sansa felt like Long Jeyne had shut the door in her face, but at the same time understood her all too well. She hadn`t meant it as an accusation, but of course it would be heard that way by someone who knew her own inadequacy. 

“I`m sorry, I only meant it as giving something in return for your help,” she answered quietly. “I`m good with children, and can help you with them as long as we`re staying, without expecting anything in return. And I might be able to offer places in my new household for those who wish it later on, if that would make things easier for you…” she trailed off, not sure if she`d taken it too far.

Long Jeyne met her eyes stonily for a moment, before she let out her breath in a long sigh, her shoulders sinking as her arms dropped down to her sides. If she`d been any other woman, Sansa thought she would`ve cried in painful relief that someone, _anyone,_ would offer some sort of sanctuary for them, but Long Jeyne had lived too hard, seen too much. She just met her eyes searchingly once more, small flickers of hope in her gaze, before finally nodding quietly. _She doesn`t trust me until she sees it happening before her eyes. And why should she? She doesn`t even know my name for sure…_

Nonetheless Sansa and Long Jeyne set to work determinedly, side by side. Jeyne called her ragged charges into the common room, including Wat and Alyn, the latter hurriedly explaining that Brienne had taken over the watch. And Gendry, who despite the chill showed up with his upper body bare, clad only in a smith’s leather apron. _That explains his body._ Sansa couldn`t help but admire his muscular arms and chest as Long Jeyne lined them all up, giving a little speech about m’ lady’s wish to help them, and that there _might_ be places for them in her household if they behaved themselves. 

They glanced from Long Jeyne to Sansa, in all shades of expressions from pure joy and excitement to sullenness, mistrust, some of them looking nearly hostile. Gathered together like this it became clear how many they were. Nearly fifty children and youngsters had been dumped here by the Sparrows, Long Jeyne explained, looking hard as flint again.

Sansa took a deep breath and suddenly felt nervous for some reason. The many different faces in front of her all sported a dark experience of life too vast for their years, mistrustfulness thick as cream in the air. 

“I won`t even pretend to know your background or what you`ve lived through,” she started, “but I know how it feels to lose your loved ones, to stand alone.” _Sandor, please don`t leave me._ “I don`t know what life will bring in the future, but sometimes, _sometimes_ it offers new beginnings. If you take them,” she said quietly, standing like the lady she was, but talking from her heart and knowing her words were true for urchins or nobles alike, looking into the thin, dirty faces before her. 

Gendry was looking directly at her, scrutinizing her face again, the room in general dead quiet to the point of embarrassing. But Sansa somehow felt that her message had hit its targets and took charge while they were struggling to collect themselves - another useful trick of Petyr’s - and divided them into groups without further ado.

“Firstly you`ll need to be presentable. I need ten of you to carry firewood, and ten of you to carry water, ten to carry tubs and five to arrange towels and soap. The last of you will bathe first and then get all the dirty clothes down to be washed, which we all will take part doing after the bath.”

The whole inn was soon turned into a complete chaos, though an organized one. The common room became a bathhouse for the smallest of the children, larger rooms upstairs divided into boys and girls’ baths. In the kitchen, enormous iron pots were set to boiling water for the baths, and then filled with heaps of dirty garments which half-naked children stirred using long wooden poles, the smell of ash and animal fat from the soap filling the room. Clean clothes were carried outside where squealing and laughing children whirled ragged garments over their heads to get the drips out, before being brought upstairs into rooms heated with roaring fires so hot it was uncomfortable being there, and hung up to dry in rapid succession. 

Sansa was bathing a little girl with big moss-green eyes and an intense panic for getting water into them as Brienne came striding through the common room. She looked around at the commotion with a flicker of amusement, but the worry sliding back over her features as her eyes landed on Sansa made her nervous.

“Clegane`s awake. He`s in horrible shape,” Brienne said in her quiet voice, looking impressively uncomfortable when the little girl grabbed hold of her breeches before stretching her arms up to be lifted away from Sansa’s merciless scrubbing of her dirty hair. “Really, he`s in a lot of pain right now. He needs that wine.”

“Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa said, drying her hands on her borrowed apron and feeling the sudden anxiety expand in her. “I`ll get it for him. Could you take over, please?” Not even managing to laugh inwardly at Brienne’s horrified expression, Sansa went in search of Long Jeyne, and after a trip down to the cellar, carried a skin of the strongest wine she could find up the stairs, worry gnawing at her stomach even though a small flicker of selfish joy ran through her at his awakening.

The room was dark, quiet and cool after the common room, the air thick with the smell of injured men. So Sansa went straight over and opened the shutters enough to let in light, but leaving Jaime’s face in shadow, making him sigh gratefully as she pushed the window up to let in some fresh air for a moment.

She walked over to Sandor’s bed and sat down on it, and instantly felt incredibly bad for wanting him to wake up into this. He`d turned onto his stitched up side and more or less lay curled up clutching the other, shaking slightly, his hair drenched in sweat as he breathed fast and shallow.

Stroking his back gently, Sansa couldn`t keep the fright out of her voice as she murmured his name, wondering despairingly how much his blue side hurt if lying on his stitches was the preferred option.

“Sandor, please…” she tried again, stroking damp strands of hair away from his face.

“Don`t… don`t touch me, just… wine,” he muttered back between clenched teeth, so low that Sansa had to concentrate to hear what he said. 

She withdrew her hand, hurt by his rejection, no matter how many sensible arguments her mind immediately came up with. “I… how… I need to lift your head at least,” she said quietly, edging her arm under his head and trying to lift him up a bit.

Sandor groaned hard in agony, his sudden intake of breath sounding like a hiss. “Fuck off, Sansa! Don`t bloody touch me! Just pour the flaming stuff down into my mouth, for fuck sake … How hellishly hard can it be?” he growled savagely, flinging his eyes open to stare straight into hers with every ounce of his old ferocity.

Sansa felt how she drew back hard from him, stunned at his outburst. “I… only wanted to help you,” she said, her voice quavering, tears welling up in her eyes no matter how much she blinked.

“Don`t. Just get me pissing drunk,” he groaned as his eyes closed again, shaking.

“But… you need to _eat_ something…” she stuttered in a whisper, only making him look at her in hazy outrage.

“No, I flaming well don`t…” he groaned. “Give me the bloody cat piss or get the hell out of my sight!” His snarl wasn`t even loud enough to be frightening, cold sweat trickling down his face with the strain of his temper, his obvious agony as he shut his eyes tight scaring her, pain welling up inside her too as she watched how he bared his teeth as he released his breath shakily…

So Sansa did as she was told, holding the wineskin to his scarred mouth and pouring whilst he gulped it down with well practiced swallows like a man dying of thirst, not even grimacing at the strong liquor’s inevitable burn down his throat. She continued until she began to wonder if she should take it away from him - it was _strongwine_ not just wine, after all… but just imagining his rage if she did so kept her pouring. He drank until he probably couldn`t take anymore, and let go of the spout, wine spilling over his chin before Sansa managed to raise it away from him. 

Then lay panting and shaking, his eyes closed as he continued to clutch his side, his other hand balled hard into a fist. Sansa’s tears spilled over and rolled in fat drops down her cheeks, but she dried them angrily and refused to make any noise, waiting until the wine worked its way through Sandor’s body. Watching how the shaking subsided and his hands relaxed until he breathed easier, deeper, oblivious. 

Not until then did a thin noise of despair cross her lips, breaking the dam, letting loose all the rest she`d walled up inside, making her shoulders shake as she sobbed quietly at how wretched a state he was in, hurt at his harsh words after working herself to pieces for him through the night.

“Sansa… please…” _Oh no, Jaime…_ “Come here, I swear I will never tell a living soul I`ve seen Lady Stark cry over her injured dog, the good part of having taken a hit to my head is that I`ve forgotten it already, just… please.”

He sounded so compassionate that she found herself turning, trying to dry her eyes as she desperately wanted to take hold of herself but found herself unable to, ending up sitting on Jaime’s bed instead of Sandor’s. He dragged himself up until he sat facing her, making Sansa cry harder when he unceremoniously pulled her in and hugged her, once again reminding her so much of Robb. 

“Sansa, hush, listen… Clegane`s not used to being cared for, he`s never had anyone who`s waited by his bed and cried over him before. He`s in severe pain and he only knows one way out of it, don`t take his barking into your heart,” Jaime murmured, stroking her back gently, calming her down.

“I know… I _know,_ it`s just… I`ve been so incredibly frightened for him, still am, and I just want to… take care of him,” she sniffled, raising herself up to meet Jaime’s green gaze. “I`m sorry, here, do you want some wine? It`s supposed to be rather strong…”

Jaime looked relieved, and thanked her gratefully before he put the skin to his mouth, drinking the strongwine down in long swallows, but not even a quarter of the amount Sandor had washed down like water. _And_ he grimaced afterwards.

“Right, what in the seven hells have they brewed this on? Tastes like fermented bull’s testicles mixed with grapes… fucking hell,” he said earnestly, making Sansa laugh through her tears. “But Sansa, back to Clegane. He`s taken a hell of a beating, and I can tell you; after Vargo Hoat ordered my hand cut off, I wanted to snarl when someone touched me, too. Ask Brienne, I was quite charming.” 

“But he didn`t snarl last night…” she replied as she slowly managed to force herself to stop whining like a child.

“No, last night he was partly in shock and partly unconscious,” Jaime answered, smiling wearily at her. “It gets worse afterwards. When the haze fades and the flesh starts knitting itself together it usually hurts like all seven hells at once, and then _that_ pain starts to gnaw at your guts.”

“I once heard my father tell his Captain of the Guards how you`d bragged about your un-scratched armour,” she replied thoughtfully, making it a question, finally able to dry her tears properly. “That nobody seemed able to get in a hit on you.”

Jaime snorted. “Knew that would irk him. Well, it`s all about being invincible, isn`t it?” he answered. “Nobody believes it if you let on how you`ve lain in your own vomit and prayed for an end to your agony.” He grinned with nearly his usual cockiness. “The old Wolf wasn`t impressed, though…”

“I can imagine…” she answered quietly, wondering what had actually happened outside that whorehouse, feeling the layers of unspoken truths concerning their common history, their past divided into enmity, her role as the Lannisters’ hostage turned traitor to her house’s sake, traitor to the North only making it worse. She had such a challenge before her in how to present herself as a true Wolf…

Jaime opened his mouth, hesitating as he glanced out the window and back at her, emerald gaze shrewd, even though his eyes had started glazing over with drink. “We need to compare notes…” he said, and stopped to swallow, apparently having trouble voicing his own treason towards his house out loud.

“Yes we do,” she answered quietly, taking his hand. “But not yet.”

“Not yet,” he agreed, grinning ruefully at her, beginning to look truly drunk, the strongwine obviously just as strong as promised if it managed to topple both Sandor and Jaime so quickly. _But they`ve also lost a lot of blood…_ “You know, you`re quite your father’s daughter when you wish it. I always thought you were more the charmingly obliging Tully type, because of how you look and how _impeccable_ your manners were in King’s Landing, you know…” his grin had a darkness to it that told all too well that he knew about her mistreatment. “But then you turned out to be this steely Stark instead. No wonder Clegane`s completely lost in you, the only thing that`s ever been lovable to him before are his weapons. Well… that and wine. But you`re obviously intoxicating as hell for him as well.”

Sansa couldn`t help herself and laughed. “You`re drunk, _Lion!”_

“Yes, and thank the Gods for that, my fine Lady Wolf,” he gave her a small bow without thinking it through and ended up cringing at the pain in his sore head, swaying slightly. “But it`s true,” he groaned. “I`ve known him since he was a brat and he`s never cared two shits for anyone. All he`s ever given of himself is his fierce loyalty and his brutal skill in service to my house. And now, the first thing he said upon waking was your name.”

“He did?” Sansa asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

“Please don`t make too much of his barking,” Jaime slurred slightly. “He`s just unused to being…”

“Loved,” Sansa whispered, making Jaime smile wearily at her again, beginning to look too drunk to continue coherent speech. 

“Yes,” he sighed and started sliding in the direction of his pillow. 

Sansa helped him lay down and tucked the already sleeping Lion in, wondering how he could feel so much like a brother and at the same time have a history that stirred so many contradictory feelings in her. Walking over to Sandor she studied his face, stopping beside him to stroke his back gently, bending down to kiss his cheek, before lifting his covers to check on his bandages, pleased to see that only his shield-arm had seeped through with blood. And then tucked him in once more, stroking over his massive body, again struck by the strange feeling of seeing him so… helpless.

She was about to go down to ask for boiled wine and cloth for cleaning Sandor’s wounds, as he was already too drunk to make all hells break loose, when Willow shoved in with a basked containing clean bandages and cloths, more poultice, more strongwine and boiled wine in a keg, smilingly telling _m’ lady_ that she thought it might be a good time to change the men’s dressings.

Sansa found herself grinning as the girl left the room on light feet to get Brienne for her, thinking that if every steward was half as efficient as the Heddle sisters there would never be a single keep in need of anything, but her grin disappeared when her gaze fastened on Sandor again.

Hoping the strongwine merely helped kill the pain and didn`t made him worse in any way, Sansa started unwrapping bandages and cleaning the wounds, nausea slamming through her at seeing the swollen red flesh and dried blood she found beneath the dressings. It was raised in lumps between the stitches, the surrounding skin looking irritated and sore, tissue fluid mixed with fresh blood colouring her cloths pink as she worked. 

Silently thinking that Sandor had a point in not wanting to be awake for her careful cleansing of his obviously painful injuries, knowing she needed to be thorough or they would fester, Sansa used the corners of clean cloths to clean every nook and cranny with the boiled wine. Finishing every wound by applying poultice, adding new dressings and bandages to the more severe injuries. Brienne showed up in moments and assisted quietly, making the process as quick and easy as possible, even though holding him up when unconscious from drink obviously proved harder than when awake and in pain. 

His side was a mess, though. His whole upper body was a map of colourful bruises, but the mottled edges surrounding the blackish blue swelling looked sinister at best, the hardness under her fingers made thoughts surface in Sansa’s mind that she`d rather not take into consideration… _as long as no maester is there to fix you…_ But they had no maester, and Elder Brother wouldn`t arrive until tomorrow afternoon, so until then Sansa could only hope that Sandor had the strength to hold on.

Sitting on Sandor’s bed after washing him and changing his sheets again, Sansa started taking out the older stitches on his forehead as the flesh was healed more than enough for them to go. Listening to Brienne cleaning up Jaime who groaned and did his best to follow Sandor into the merciful state of dead drunkenness, she tried to swallow her anxiety, hoping Sandor would wake in a better state than he`d been in earlier. 

“I love you no matter what,” she whispered, gathering up the refuse before reluctantly getting up and leaving the room. 

Sandor slept for most of the day, and so did Jaime. It turned out Brienne had positively run up the stairs when Willow had told her Sansa wanted help, so when Sansa came into the common room again, she more or less took up where she`d left off, only bathing a different child. 

As the hours went by she found herself working with Long Jeyne again, washing, drying and mending clothes, brushing out tangled, sometimes felted hair, cutting it and using lice combs once the hair was dry to get rid of the parasites, braiding the girls afterwards. Continuing by clipping nails and washing wounds, smearing poultice on skin trouble. Until every child looked scrubbed and clean, every youngster somewhat presentable. 

Then advanced on finding every single piece of cloth not in use at the inn, including clothes, boots and cloaks from the loot, taking note of which children were in the worst state of dress and starting to hand out supplements to what they were already wearing, sewing new clothes where necessary. To give every child a full set of clothes would take weeks, but Sansa nonetheless felt good after they`d cleaned up the whole area afterwards. Even the common room had been washed down after fifteen toddlers had flooded the area, so it all looked nice and welcoming as she looked at all the clean and tidied up children helping to ready the place for supper. 

Not all had agreed quietly, of course, and Sansa was fairly sure she`d made some enemies amongst the older ones, too, as washing obviously was a quite dreadful activity for some… And then there was the problem with shoes. There were simply not enough, and those who _had_ shoes were pretty possessive about them even when their feet were clearly an inch too long. To get the older boys and girls to pass their shoes down to the younger ones had been a critical situation to manoeuvre through. But that was trouble for another day. 

Carrying a bowl of the same broth she`d had to break her fast, she walked over to the stable to check on Stranger and change his dressings, thinking it a great idea to do it now when everyone else was inside eating and the stable was quiet. Meeting a clean and dressed Gendry as he came into the stable from the backdoor, apparently having come to the same conclusion as herself as he carried newly made horseshoes in both hands. 

“M’ lady,” he nodded as she met his eyes.

“Ser,” she greeted politely, as she walked down the line of horses, stopping to kiss Gardian’s muzzle and eat the last of her broth, trying not to think too closely on that combination.

She managed to persuade Stranger to let her clean his shoulder without going completely insane, even though he reared at the flushing process today as well. The difference was that Sansa found herself more and more unable to get frightened by him, his vicious temper mostly for show where she was concerned, at least. So she hummed softly to him as she worked, accompanied by the noises from Gendry shoeing horses, the metallic clangs of fitting the shoe using hammer and anvil and the softer taps of nailing it to the hoof. And so she was cleaning up Stranger’s last leg when the blacksmith-knight obviously decided to take a break from being a farrier. 

He came over and leant against the wall to the next stall watching her work for a while. She ignored him, intent on cutting off a skin-flap she`d missed on Stranger’s chewed on hind-leg, needing to slice through fast and accurately so as not to make the stallion hurt unnecessarily, the severe swelling of the leg obviously painful enough. And scrubbing the wound clean afterwards. _Poor boy._

“I _did_ know another lady,” Gendry said at last, a stubborn note to his tone. Sansa didn`t quite know how to respond to that, as everything that came to mind sounded condescending.

“I hope she treated you well, ser,” Sansa ended up saying, concentrating on getting poultice into every tooth-hole as Stranger’s irritably stepped and kicked the air. 

Gendry chuckled. “That depends on how you expect to be treated by a lady. She didn`t even look like one.” Something in his voice made Sansa look up, and he met her gaze intently as he obviously chose his words carefully. “Ragged and skinny with her brown hair cut short, quick in body and mind, fought like a savage, grey eyes…”

Sansa felt the bandage she was holding drop out of her hand. “Long face?” she whispered, watching Gendry finding the confirmation he needed.

“I didn`t think so, at least,” he answered quietly, studying her with his piercing blue eyes. “Her face was exactly as it should be.” 

Sansa cleared her throat. “What was her name?”

“She had many. Arry, Nymeria or Nan, Weasel… but her lady name was Arya, one of her former household guards recognized her. And you _are_ her sister, aren`t you? The two surviving Starks.”

Sansa looked him straight in the eye. _Nymeria._ “Yes. If she`s still alive. Do you… do you know where she is?”

He shook his head, breaking their gaze as he looked down at the straw. “No, I`d hoped you might know.”

Wondering why Ser Gendry the Smith of the Forest and the Hollow Hill wanted to know where her sister was as badly as herself, Sansa brushed down Guardian and walked him around the yard for while in the last yellow light of the setting sun, hoping to ease the swelling in his legs after being stabled after such a rough pace the day and night before. _Where are you, Arya? Are you still alive?_ Sandor had clearly thought that a quite possible option, and now she`d met another person who`d known her sister after King’s Landing. How had Arya even managed to get out of that trap? Nobody could blame _her_ for being helpless, at least… Sansa wasn`t even surprised at Gendry’s description of how her wild sibling supposedly fought.

She was still thinking about her savage little sister when she climbed the stairs again, listening to Long Jeyne’s strict command to the children to fold their clean clothes properly, telling them that if they wished a place in a lady’s household they needed to stop acting like animals and start remembering what their late mothers had taught them. 

Brienne was pouring more strongwine into Sandor’s mouth when she went into their room, and Sansa had to fight down the urge to run over and fold her arms around him. He didn`t even seem to realise she was there, something already hazy in the way his eyes were fastened on the skin in Brienne’s hands as he gulped down the strong liquid until his eyes rolled back and he hit the pillow, too drunk for anything else than a dreamless sleep. It made Sansa nervous and frightened and relieved all at the same time, not used to the unsophisticated way soldiers obviously tended to themselves when injured, remembering Maester Luwin and Maester Colemon’s careful measuring and knowledge of how every part of the body worked, how to mend and help with controlled actions based on long years of education.

Her shivering anxiety wouldn`t go away, though, her need to be close to Sandor overwhelming, and inwardly telling herself to stop being so selfish did nothing to lessen it. So, despite her earlier effort to let him be, she found herself glancing at him when both Brienne and herself were finally undressed and ready for sleep. Looking at how Sandor lay positioned on his bed, seeing how there was room enough for her… knowing he might or might not wake up again…

She shifted her gaze to Brienne, who looked straight back at her and actually made her blush furiously. Brienne saw her burning cheeks and for once seemed to understand perfectly what was going on. She just grinned and shrugged her shoulders.

“Had there been room for me in bed with Jaime I would`ve been sharing a bed tonight, too,” she murmured, looking faintly mortified, but apparently having decided that loyalty won out over honourable behaviour tonight.

“Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa whispered back as she climbed into bed with her half unconscious mostly dead drunk unsworn shield, her friend smiling in return before closing the shutters and blowing out the candles, instantly falling into an exhausted sleep.

She didn`t know how long she had slept when Sandor awoke groaning for more wine, drenched in a cold sweat once more, swearing furiously without adding anything more coherent as Sansa insisted on giving him water as well. When he was done, she lay tensed beside him without touching him in case he erupted again, swallowing away her tears, feeling so useless and unwanted that it was nearly unbearable. Trying to find solace in the pretty moonlight streaming through the cracks in the shutters, she lay looking at the small specks of dust swirling in them until slowly, she noticed Sandor’s eyes were open, looking at her through the darkness. 

She tried to smile shakily at him, not sure if he saw it or not, but feeling so at loss that it all just collapsed in a sob. And then the dam broke again and all her fright and worry poured out of her in ragged sobs and suppressed crying. Horrified by her own lack of control she started backing out of the bed, not wanting him to growl any more, but before she managed to do so he raised his right hand and touched her face, making her freeze as his calloused thumb stroked the tears from her cheek and followed her jaw line down to her mouth. 

She sniffled and kissed his fingers tentatively through her uncontrolled sobs, unsure what he wanted and unwilling to cross the line again. But he just sighed deeply and grabbed her wrist, clumsily dragging her arm around him, trying to get his limp shield-arm around her. So, still crying quietly, she carefully wrapped her arms around him, holding him gently as he breathed raggedly into her neck until the wine worked once more. Knowing words would be too much, kisses too tender, her love and worry quite enough to absorb for a man that had always been alone in his pain and rage, she just held him.

And like that they both fell asleep, Sansa finally finding the real, deep sleep she`d needed desperately these last days, sinking down in a dreamless blessed darkness and didn`t wake at dawn at all, the shutters keeping the dim light at bay.

The knock on the door startled her awake and the soft ‘oh’ from the doorway had Sansa’s guts clench in panic as she tried to slide out from Sandor’s embrace without knocking his wounds, turning just in time to meet clear brown eyes under clean brown hair, still in the ornate braid Sansa had made for her yesterday.

Willow’s intelligent eyes looked from Sansa to Sandor’s sleeping form, before curtsying clumsily. “M’ lady, a Brother is here to see you, accompanied by several Sparrows… they`re waiting for you downstairs.”


	28. Elder Brother and Older Schemes.

Sansa’s mind raced like the wind, slowly raising herself from Sandor’s bed wearing only her smallclothes, her face steely serene as she met Willow’s uncomfortable gaze. Was Elder Brother already here? It must be him, but how had he managed to get here so quickly? And Sparrows? Somehow, Sansa didn`t like the thought of that…

“Willow, would you please help me dress?” she asked, wondering how to handle this situation best, how to avoid rumours she couldn`t afford right now, watching the way the girl swallowed as she curtsied gracelessly again with obvious anxiety. Oh yes, she was far too intelligent to not understand that she`d witnessed something she was not supposed to have seen, no doubt about that.

Willow worked quietly and efficiently, as she always did, fussing over Sansa’s skirts and muttering as she removed stains from yesterday’s work from them with the corner of her apron dipped in soapy water. Sansa could dress herself very well on her own, but let the girl do her bidding instead, pleasantly surprised when Willow went straight from making her dress presentable to brushing her hair, braiding it with small deft hands afterwards and watching her warily the whole time. Sansa just kept quiet, waiting her out.

Brienne had woken up and was dressing herself, looking slightly sideways at Sansa. She tried to tell her friend with her eyes to stop looking like Sansa had dressed herself in gold and feathers, but of course such small signals were lost on Brienne, who just stared more instead. 

“Please, could you… tidy up in here…” she said in a low voice to the half-dressed Maid of Tarth before leaving the room, throwing a glance at Sandor’s bed. “You know, if Elder Brother should wish to look at them for instance..?” That, Brienne clearly understood.

It wasn`t until Sansa and Willow were descending the stairs that the girl at last opened her mouth to speak, making Sansa concentrate on not sighing in relief as she`d already begun spinning up subtle threats to make the girl keep what she`d seen to herself.

“M’lady… I won`t tell anyone, m’lady…” she more or less whispered, glancing sideways at Sansa. “I… um, because… you`re not married to him… the real Hound?” the girl added, sounding as though she hoped to be proved wrong.

Sansa stopped and turned fully towards her, meeting Willow’s gaze as calmly as she could. “No. I`m not married to him. So please make sure ‘nobody’ means exactly that.” 

She looked straight into the girl’s brown eyes for a moment more, her own face expressionless, watching as the message sunk in before she finally smiled wearily at the girl in front of her.

“I am married to a man who I don`t even know is still alive, who never loved me, and never really wanted me in the first place,” she said quietly, suddenly feeling so much older than her years, and turned to continue down the stairs. But Willow touched her sleeve lightly before hurriedly withdrawing her hand, apparently shocked over her own forwardness. “Yes?” Sansa asked when the girl just looked down mortified at her feet. 

Willow glanced up at her, opening and closing her mouth before apparently concluding that it was much more rude to get a lady’s attention without having anything to say, than to just tell her what she had on her mind. “Do… do you love him, m’lady?” she blurted in a whisper, staring hard at the boards beneath her feet again. “The Hound?”

Sansa stared at the innkeep’s little sister, and saw an orphan girl with the same dreams in her head, the same songs and stories she had loved as a child herself. And even though Willow had learned the hard way of life long before Sansa ever had, she clearly still treasured romance, probably transplanting the wounded warrior lying upstairs and his lady love directly into one of her songs.

“Yes, Willow, I love him,” she sighed, hoping fervently she had judged the situation correctly. 

The girl looked up at her, as serious as only ten-year olds could be, meeting her eyes warily. “You really _can_ trust me, m’lady, I`ll prove it to you,” she said in a low, clear voice, something honest and firm in her gaze that actually made it sound convincing, before she added a clumsy curtsy for good measure. 

“Thank you,” Sansa answered softly, thinking Willow knew a thing or two about feeling betrayed, but still having several solutions ready if the girl talked anyway. 

Taking a deep breath and relaxing her shoulders, she ‘lifted her heart’ as her Septa had taught her and glided into the common room with her head held high, knowing how much weight a good first impression held in people’s minds. Her gaze slid over the clean and neat room bathed in morning light, seeing how Long Jeyne had brought in juniper branches in large jars to give the room a nice smell, the room in general suspiciously free of orphans, and stopped at the group of hooded men seated around a table over by one of the windows.

Willow curtsied her _m’lady_ before disappearing into the kitchen as a brother clad in a brown robe raised himself upon seeing her. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a weathered face, a heavy jaw and shrewd blue eyes - and moved with a clear resemblance to Sandor and Jaime. _Elder Brother was once a knight, wasn`t he?_ The Sparrows with him scrambled up to their feet as well and Sansa received a series of bows of varying quality from the men with the red, seven-pointed star sewn onto their ragged, filthy tabards.

She dipped her head in return, keeping her features calmly apprehensive and locking her knees so as not to curtsy as she`d been used to. 

“Lady Stark,” the brother concluded quietly, his voice deep and coloured by an anchored confidence in his own role amongst men. “I received your note on my way here.”

Sansa allowed herself a brief smile, despite the slightly unnerving feeling that this man was a bit too well informed. “I wondered how you got here so soon, Brother.” 

Elder Brother just smiled kindly at her, obviously picking up on her quiet distress. “Ravens fly fast, my lady. I`ve had men patrolling the roads trying to find you before Littlefinger’s men.” _Might that be the messengers from Lord Bracken on their way to Gulltown, whom Gendry spoke of..?_ “So when I received a note telling me twenty-eight armed men had turned up dead, combined with the knowledge of who I had sent to your aid… I hardly needed the tale about how Ser Gendry had found another lady from the boys sent to pick up the horsemeat.”

Sansa held his gaze steadily. “Thank you,” she murmured, seeing in his eyes that he understood her gratitude was for his honesty, and getting a quite clear impression that he appreciated that she believed his words in return, silently respecting that trust was precious for her, and not something easily given. Sansa thought she might come to understand _Sandor’s_ strange flickers of respect towards this man.

“Now, you wrote that your men were injured. Would you like me to tend to them immediately?” he asked, true concern in his deep voice.

“Yes, thank you, Brother,” Sansa answered, feeling relief flood her at the change of responsibility. “But, forgive me, the Sparrows..?”

Something akin to amusement shone in Elder Brother’s clear eyes for half a heartbeat. “I`m sure they`ll be more than happy to wait a bit longer, my lady.” 

Leaving the Sparrows downstairs, Willow and Long Jeyne appearing out of nowhere with wine and broth, Sansa led the strangely impressive brother up the stairs, knocking gently on the door before they went into the room. 

Brienne had apparently thrown herself around and finished dressing in moments, tucked in the men, removed Sansa’s sheets and pillow from Sandor’s bed, made up the pallets, and aired out and tidied the large room. The result being that it didn`t look half as bad that Sansa was sleeping in the same room as her sworn shields as when she went downstairs. 

Sending Brienne a grateful glance, watching how the large lady bowed in greeting to Elder Brother, Sansa mentally noted down the necessity of hugging her friend soundly later on. 

“We`ve cleaned them both up and stitched them together to the best of my and the innkeep’s abilities, Brother,” Sansa said, turning to face him. “The Lion has taken a severe hit to his head in addition to a quite deep cut down his side, while Clegane has several nasty wounds and… is probably bleeding inside.” Just saying it made her want to cry, and calling Sandor by the name of his house felt so strangely _wrong._

Sansa followed Elder Brother over to Sandor’s bed, and stood nervously looking at the man as he just stood there gazing down at Sandor’s sleeping form. So she bent down and shook her beloved warrior’s massive shoulder gently, wincing inwardly at the thin sheen of cold sweat covering his skin.

“Sandor.” _Damn it, so much for the holding up of the pretences…_ “Sandor, please wake. Elder Brother is here,” she murmured, managing to restrain herself from stroking his face, but only just. _I need to pull myself together, this is ridiculous!_ But finally being relieved of the responsibility of keeping her men alive, giving Sandor the help he needed, felt so good she could have laughed in joy.

Sandor stirred under her hand, and didn`t improve the situation by groaning softly and stroking down his injured side as he opened his eyes slowly, looking straight at her with his grey gaze, making her knees weak with the love she felt for him. And then crowned it all by releasing his side to reach out for her with his right hand, muttering her name. Her first name. _Sansa._

Sansa blushed scarlet, wondering how in the heavens’ names she could be caught so soundly twice in a day, but pretended stubbornly that everything was quite within the bounds of proper behaviour.

“Elder Brother is _here,”_ she repeated, trying to get the message through by gesticulating behind her, seeing the slight widening of his eyes as he withdrew his hand and obviously had to force himself not to clutch his side again as he shifted his gaze.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered breathlessly in an incredibly inappropriate greeting to a _Brother_ of all things. 

Hoping Elder Brother took her blushing as a response to his complete lack of respect, Sansa was about to excuse him when Elder Brother’s face cracked up in a smile.

“By all the Gods, Sandor, why do I always find you severely injured and cursing?” he said, equal parts amusement and exasperation in his voice.

“I`m even kind of drunk,” Sandor replied hoarsely in that too slow way, a shadow of a wry grin crossing his pale face in return, making Elder Brother shake his head as he took hold of Sandor’s hand lying on the covers, gripping each other like soldiers greeting their brothers. _That was strangely appropriate, though._

Elder Brother started by washing his hands and lifting Sandor’s covers to check on him, asking Sansa questions about everything from what she had done when she found him to whether he`d urinated or...

Sandor groaned and looked to her for confirmation as to whether he should be embarrassed or not, and Sansa felt her cheeks heat. “No, Brother. But I haven`t been able to persuade him to eat, either.”

Elder Brother nodded as if things made perfect sense. “But he has drunk something other than wine I hope?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sansa answered, relieved. “The first night he drank only water. It was only yesterday I brought him strongwine for the pain and I made him drink water in addition.”

“Good… good,” Elder Brother murmured, sending her a quick glance. “No easy task that.”

“Oh, he only growls a bit,” Sansa said in Sandor’s defence, feeling her hackles rise. Elder Brother looked at her with something definitely mirthful in his gaze this time.

“He only growls a bit… well, he nearly roared my walls down the last time I was in your position… impressive,” he murmured as he started on removing Sandor’s bandages, meeting his patient’s eyes calmly and raising one eyebrow. The side of Sandor’s mouth twisted, somehow making him seem rueful without adding any other expression.

“Can you fucking blame me?” he murmured at Elder Brother, glancing at Sansa as he breathed shallowly, and she watched in wonderment as Elder Brother gazed her way as well, for half a heartbeat looking just like any other man, before his face schooled itself into a Brotherly expression again.

“No,” he answered Sandor. Quietly. As dazed grey eyes met clear blue. 

_He`s… he`s… showing me off!_ Sansa couldn`t do anything else than stare. But strangely enough, it felt ridiculously good to be shown off by Sandor. Knowing he was proud of her, thought her beautiful, wanted to show her to the only man she`d ever heard him refer to with reverence filled her with a queer kind of pride. It wasn`t at all like the way Littlefinger had dressed her up and used her against other men, to help him gain what he wanted. _Has Sandor spoken of me to Elder Brother before?_

Not knowing if she should be unnerved or flattered by the dignified Brother’s possible understanding that there might be something going on between his foul-mouthed charge and Lady Stark, Sansa helped remove Sandor’s bandages in silence. It felt so strange not to caress him, not to be able to kiss him, and somehow, watching his muscular upper body while Elder Brother examined him, her desire for Sandor slowly started to simmer. And that of course made all her love and lust for him surge every time her fingers touched his skin. 

Shocked at herself, Sansa struggled to control her treacherous body as her hands held onto his powerful muscles as she removed dressings, stroked smooth skin between scars as she lifted his arms, watched how those scars rippled as Sandor moved slightly when Elder Brother worked his way across his body.

It didn`t help at all that Sandor knew her too well, and soon began to look at her with a slow burn in his eyes, even though they both knew he was in no condition to do anything, sweating and shivering slightly now that he was forced to move. But he held her gaze through Elder Brother’s prodding and poking, gritting his teeth as sweat trickled down his face, panting in pain - and stroked her thigh with his fingertips when she leant over him to help Elder Brother remove the bandages around his chest and shoulder. It felt like he had set her on fire. Before a Brother and everything!

Trying hard to conceal her own reactions, keeping her breathing even by stubborn will alone, Sansa answered Elder Brother’s questions to the best of her abilities. He grunted, satisfied, when looking at her stitches, asked about the depth of the wounds and if Sandor could move his left arm at all, use his fingers.

It turned out that he could, but only whilst cursing every God known to man as he did so, grimacing at his swollen, stitched up arm. Elder Brother paid the coarse language no mind and watched closely as he made Sandor move every finger separately, lift his arm off the sheets, tell him where it hurt, as he absentmindedly dried off drops of tissue-fluid trickling down Sandor’s elbow. 

“Good,” Elder Brother murmured at last, making Sandor snort and then swallow heavily, his eyes closing. “What`s not so good is this side of yours, my friend,” he concluded, glancing at Sandor’s sweaty, pale face and the way he was shivering in concern. 

“He`s not vomited blood since yesterday night, Brother,” Sansa offered, hearing how thin her voice was with worry.

“And yet he drinks water and wine, but does not urinates,” Elder Brother answered quietly. “I hope the bleeding has stopped by itself, but I will give him root of wild geranium, birthroot and yarrow to try to stop it if it hasn`t. And then it`s up to the Gods to decide.”

Sansa felt frustration well up like a flood. Elder Brother was supposed to be their salvation, his knowledge and skill the thing that would ensure Sandor’s survival. Sandor met her eyes again through his daze, before looking at Elder Brother. 

“What Gods?” he whispered, horrifying her with the repetition of her own thoughts. _His words._ “I don`t care for your buggering Gods, man – you know that. Just give me your fucking herbs and shit and drown me in strongwine until my body has healed or I`m bloody dead, do you hear me?” 

Sansa gasped at more than his rudeness. “No,” she said, sitting down on his bed and laying her hand carefully on his clammy neck, leaning close to his face. “No, you`re not allowed to die, do you hear _me?_ I`ve told you so for days. He will give you his herbs and I will drown you in strongwine, but your body _will_ heal and you will _live._ Don`t you mix the Gods into it either, the Stranger least of all. Just _live.” Because I love you, I can`t continue without you._ She held his eyes, watching how her unsaid words sunk in, and stroked the sweat off the good side of his face with her hand, just to be allowed to touch him some more. 

“Fuck me, you`re stubborn,” he muttered, nearly inaudible. “Give me the bloody wine then and I`ll do my fucking best to live, _my lady,”_ he added softly, glancing at her mouth. 

“Thank you,” she whispered back, so close to kissing him that it felt like she`d actually done it when turning towards the others again, feeling her cheeks glowing faintly. 

Brienne obviously struggled not to smile and Elder Brother looked at her kindly, something a kin to satisfaction glinting in his eyes without altering his calm expression, and then started to pull leather bags of herbs out of his saddlebag.

Long Jeyne and Willow were called upstairs, bringing with them mortar and pestle, clean water, wash water and boiled wine. Long Jeyne bobbed a curtsy at Sansa but looked hostilely at Elder Brother when he asked what her poultice was made of. 

“Honey and garlic, and pulverized dried clove, burdock, sage, red root and marigold flowers… why? Something wrong with that?” she asked defensively. 

“Quite the opposite,” Elder Brother answered mildly, starting to clean Sandor’s arm. “These wounds are sound and healing, my compliments on your work.”

Sandor had to drink the mixture of herbs to stop his internal bleeding and then another mixture of mortared wheatgrass, kale and kelp to make new blood as Elder Brother explained, grumbling about the lack of spinach. But when Long Jeyne wiped off her scowl and hesitantly offered that she had red beets in her cellar, Elder Brother thanked her with such force that the innkeep fled out the door on her way to make red beet soup, looking as close to pleased as Sansa had seen her.

Sansa was praised for her quick stemming of the blood, stitching and thorough cleaning of the wounds afterwards, and remained seated at Sandor’s side as Elder Brother moved on with Brienne to give Jaime what help he could. She helped Sandor drink a cup of strongwine with a few drops of milk of the poppy mixed into it, watching how he slowly relaxed again, his eyes turning truly hazy as he held her gaze. 

He grabbed her sleeve clumsily and dragged her down towards him as if he wanted to whisper something in her ear, so she leant forward to listen. Instead he turned his head, and his lips brushed hers lightly, a half-kiss so tender and unexpected that Sansa was taken completely by surprise. And then his eyes closed, and she watched Sandor sleeping painlessly in the deep, drugged sleep Sweetrobin had been engulfed in far too often. Somehow that felt worse than when he`d merely been dead drunk, even though Sansa knew it was for the best. 

She glanced around the room, relieved to discover that Willow was deep in concentration, using the pestle to grind herbs for Jaime’s mixture, Elder Brother cleaning up Jaime’s head-wound, cutting off golden locks, making Brienne wince more than Jaime himself.

“I have to tell you, my lady, our charge here should not have too much milk of the poppy, nor should he be given it for too long,” Elder Brother murmured to her as he packed up his saddlebag again. She raised her face, surprised. Maester Colemon had certainly not been so restrictive, even though he had grumbled over the side effects.

“I expect _you_ to control his dose carefully, Brother, why are you telling me this?” she asked puzzled.

Elder Brother met her eyes shrewdly. “You knew Sandor from King’s Landing; I know him from a later point, but as I`m quite sure we both know, he does take easily to drink,” he said quietly, making Sansa want to defend Sandor again for some reason. 

“That may be, but he`s stayed sober for this entire journey with one exception,” she answered as calmly as she could.

Elder Brother’s eyes glittered mirthfully again. “Yes, and then he turned the inn you were staying at on its head, or so my reports say,” he grinned, making Sansa see the soldier he`d once been, the man who would find it funny if he didn`t have another agenda. 

“He turned this inn on its head when drunk once, too,” Willow added from behind them, making Sansa turn in surprise. “Him and some thin, ragged little boy. Killed three men, and smashed tables and benches to pieces. It`s true, m’lady, the whores told us, it was when my second cousin ran the place,” she finished.

Sansa didn`t know if she should laugh or shake her head, ending up feeling exasperated both by Willow’s blurted confession and by Sandor for being… his violent self… Somehow she didn`t doubt Willow’s words at all, as the thin, ragged little boy sounded suspiciously like her lost sister, and Sandor _had_ told her how he`d had to drag Arya off a corps once, screaming and bloody. After he`d gotten drunk when hearing about her marriage to Tyrion…

Elder Brother watched her carefully as she unwittingly stared Willow down, rousing her from her train of thought with a discreet cough. 

“My point being,” he continued blithely, “that when he first stumbles into the wine, he falls hard. Milk of the poppy is ten times worse. He needs to dull his pain now, men have died of the shock of hurting too much before, but please help him to avoid the trap that lurks there, my lady.”

Sansa led the way down the stairs, Brienne at her heels, as Alyn was called up and stationed on post in the bedroom again. Inevitably, she thought about all the times she`d seen Sandor drunk in King’s Landing and how he`d reacted when she`d brought it up in the forest. She fell naturally into court stance, though, before reaching the common room and the Sparrows waiting for her, thinking it didn`t hurt to seem like the storybook lady for them, hoping they saw her humble dress as a sign of her good qualities, if not piety.

They raised themselves when they saw her, and she greeted them with a dip of her head as Brienne took up her place as guard - and Sansa saw to her astonishment, now that their hoods were thrown back, that two of them were women. One of the Sparrows was a large old man, bald as an egg but with something definitely knightly in the way he moved, but beside him stood three youngsters, a young woman and a _lady_ – the latter couldn`t be anything else. In the ragged outfit of a Sparrow along with the rest.

Elder Brother had stopped beside her. “May I present to you Lady Leslyn Mallister, Ser Robin Ryger, Garrett Paege, Lewys Piper, Josmund Peckledon and Pia, his wife,” he said in his calm way, the puzzle snapped together in Sansa’s mind and she couldn`t help but smile radiantly. 

“Thank you,” she murmured to him before turning her attention to the assembled representatives from both knightly and noble houses of the riverlands. Except Peckledon… _Isn`t that a westerlands house?_

“My lady,” Leslyn Mallister started, giving the perfect curtsy from one prominent lady to her slight superior, despite her breeches and tabard. “I`m thrilled to see you have arrived safely down from the mountains. We are here to greet you and will be part of the entourage accompanying you to Riverrun, on behalf of our houses.”

Sansa murmured her thanks, but only dipped her head slightly in return, silently taking note of how the wife of Jason Mallister looked just as arrogant as the rumours would have her husband. She remembered her lessons with Maester Colemon well, as Petyr had set her to memorize all the more influential houses of Westeros when he had found out she couldn`t remember half of what Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane had tried to teach her. And even though house Mallister had lost most of its influence, they still took their title as Defender of the Western Shore quite seriously. Lady Mallister clearly found the idea of taking charge of this young lady in front of her as completely as it should be, instead of waiting to hear her liege lady’s plans.

Sansa turned to Ser Robin, taking in his large hands and hard features. “If I remember correctly, ser, you were the Captain of the Guard at Riverrun before the siege?” Sansa asked the old knight, making him smile at her. “My mother once told me how much her brother admired your skill as a warrior.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he answered, looking flattered. “I`m supposed to be at the Wall right now, both me and Ser Desmond. Didn`t say when we would get there, though, so when we were asked for our swords I thought to be of service both to my House and to you for as long as I`m needed in the south… before I take my vows north.” He even threw in a bow, remarkably supple in his movements for being such an aged man.

Sansa smiled back at him before looking at Paege and Piper, trying to come up with as much as she could remember about the two houses. Marq Piper had been her uncle Edmure’s friend, and was still being held at the Twins after the Red Wedding as far as she knew, having harried the Lannisters through the riverlands. So this Piper should be his younger brother…

“Little Lew Piper, is it?” she asked him, keeping a smile on her face, but not giving away her enthusiasm. The houses Mallister, Ryger and Paege had promised their help, but Piper was a pleasant, if not complete, surprise. 

Lewys Piper bowed, having gained his ‘little’ nickname for resembling his father, if Sansa remembered correctly. Except he wasn`t fat. Short and square, with wild red hair, yes… even slightly bowlegged, now she looked closer, but not fat like Lord Piper. On the other hand… the lord of Pinkmaiden might not be so fat anymore himself. War and winter ruled the riverlands, after all. 

“My lord father sends his regards, my lady. He was part of the faction that spurred on the war council of reluctant river lords to join the rebels again once they`d been forced to bend the knee to the Lannisters,” he said in an even voice, something flat in his gaze that felt both unnerving and comforting at the same time. _This young man has made his choices in life… no spoiled little lordling here…_

She met his gaze with a firm one of her own. “Your father will be rewarded for his loyalty if it turns out steadfast this time,” she answered, watching in relief when the lad just nodded. No splutters, no declarations of everlasting loyalty – just something stoic about his whole appearance. _Good._

“And Garrett Paege,” she continued, looking at the lad by Little Lew’s side, but finding herself unable to come up with anything on the boy. He was well built with light blue eyes and light brown hair, but didn`t seem to make much out of himself.

“House Paege offers its loyalty,” he said with a surprisingly deep voice. “We were part of the first squad to infiltrate and re-take Riverrun. Emmon Frey is in the dungeons as promised, and my uncle holds the fork against the Freys.” 

Sansa couldn`t remember a promise involving dungeons, but his uncle might be Robert Paege - another of Edmure’s old friends - and so she nodded gracefully nonetheless before turning to the westerman and his wife.

“Josmund Peckledon, my lady,” the young man said, still looking a boy despite his beard. He was quite skinny, but seemed sinewy strong, with brown hair and nut-brown eyes. Certainly no beauty, but his pretty wife looked adoringly at him nonetheless. “I lost the knighthood Queen Cersei offered me to follow ser in this, so my loyalty is yours even though my house is not with me,” he continued, looking Sansa straight in her eyes. _Another young man who has made his choices…_

“And who would _ser_ be, then?” she asked him, wondering what more Elder Brother had up his sleeve.

“Well, Jaime Lannister, of course,” Josmund replied. “The Lion sent to get you back from the Vale.”

Sansa concealed her surprise, but felt it nonetheless. Behind her, she felt Brienne stiffen. “So, you were Jaime Lannister’s squire, then?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady. All three of us were,” the lad said, gesticulating to Lew Piper and Garrett Paege. Sansa didn`t quite know whether she would like to walk quietly up the stairs and wring Jaime’s neck or slap the three squires’ faces, cold fury descending on her like an icy wave, making her strain for an extra inch in height and Brienne shift slightly.

“Really? Then let me just make it clear that if this is some game played by Jaime or anyone else remotely connected to the Lannisters, know that I will cut my own wrists before I let them set me up as some pretty little pawn in the game of thrones,” she chimed, staring coldly at the people assembled before her. She watched closely as Ser Robin’s expression turned horrified and Lady Mallister suddenly didn`t look so arrogant anymore. The three squires all looked crestfallen, making her relax her shoulders and breathe again.

“M’lady? Please, m’lady,” Josmund’s wife said in a small voice, made smaller by the way she held her hand in front of her mouth when she spoke. “My husband and I came because we`ve been acting as messengers to and from the camps. Garrett Paege guarantied for us, on his honour, m’lady,” she said in a rush, continuing even faster. “Please. We`ve been trying to find ser, because of the way he just disappeared, and then rumours started floating around about him changing allegiances because of her,” she nodded at Brienne, “the Tarth maid’s search for you…” 

Elder Brother made a calming gesture towards Pia, and she stopped talking immediately, looking almost scared, of all things, as Elder Brother continued the explanation. “The riverlords have had their hands full with the Lannisters and the Brotherhood without Banners, supplies are becoming a problem, and the possible upcoming siege of the Twins is making them stretch their forces. So when the houses called their banners yet again, the Peckledons followed Paege to his house, and I was informed about Jaime Lannister’s three squires’ search for him and found some use for them,” he finished. “I assure you, my lady, that they have proven trustworthy.”

Elder Brother’s calm dignity had Sansa reassured. And, well, Jaime would have died in her service if she`d not been such a disobedient charge, so _he_ had proved his loyalty quite profoundly, actually. It was just unnerving to have so many former Lions around her… She looked searchingly at their faces one more time, before gesticulating for the small party to take their seats, seating herself at the end with Brienne standing rooted behind her shoulder.

“I`m a Stark of Winterfell, but I remember my Tully blood,” she said, looking at each and every one of them in turn. “Winter is already here; family, duty and honour a part of what will lead to our survival. I need to establish peace in the riverlands to rule in peace in the north. And I mean to rule,” she said with a quiet sincerity that weighed heavier than any boasts of greatness. 

Lady Mallister was watching her intently, Ser Robin looked nearly proud and the three squires held her gaze one by one. Steadfast. _Really good._ Even Pia seemed intent on proving her worth, looking awed at Sansa and gripping her husband’s arm hard. Meeting Elder Brother’s eyes, Sansa found it in her to smile warmly again. _He sent Sandor to me… and he is worth his weight in gold for his network of eyes, ears and messengers._

“I need to know what has happened in the world since I left the Vale.”

Elder Brother smiled slightly back at her. “Well, as to that, my lady… On the surface, precious little has happened in the Vale, life continues on like before for the commoners and merchants and most of the nobles, too, except for the mustering of arms,” he started, making Sansa feel anxiety slam through her. If Petyr was still… but Elder Brother continued before she managed to voice her concern. “Beneath that, the strong undercurrents have pulled Littlefinger down. But not without cost.”

“Speak plainly, Brother,” Sansa replied, steel entering her voice, her very being.

“As I understand, you disappeared at a feast after a tourney arranged in honour of your upcoming marriage to Ser Harrold Hardyng. Baelish turned the Gates of the Moon upside down trying to find you, sending patrols up the mountainroad and down to Gulltown, checking every caravan and ship. In the tumult, nobody noticed the disappearance of another young woman. The Blackfish moved on Baelish when you`d been gone for three days, knowing by then that countless people would have been put to the question, but you were at least far enough away for events to unfold.”

The fine hairs on Sansa’s arms stood on end under her sleeves, and she had to concentrate not to swallow, to breathe evenly, keep her face serene. _What other young woman?_ “Continue,” she commanded quietly, again feeling Brienne shift as she sensed Sansa’s distress.

“The Blackfish moved only to discover Harry the Heir’s men amongst the servants, Harry himself having gone to take on Littlefinger himself, against Anya Waynwood’s advice. He ended up seriously wounded in Baelish’s solar, letting Petyr get away… and allowing him to set several countermoves in action.”

“The complete idiot,” Sansa murmured under her breath, her frustration with Harry nearly too much to bear. “What countermoves?”

“Well, every village from here to King’s Landing has probably been notified of the ransom promised for Alayne Stone, and the Lions in King’s Landing know that Sansa Stark has briefly resurfaced in the Vale before disappearing once more. You can be sure there are considerable forces on their way to find you. That`s why we came as such a small party and dressed as Sparrows… Anything more from the river lords right now would have pointed to you like an arrow.” Elder Brother looked at her mildly.

“So I need to reach Riverrun for my own safety, I understand,” she answered. “What about the Lannister-controlled areas in the riverlands?”

Elder Brother smiled. “There, at least, I have good news. They are at the end of their rations, battle-tired and in lack of proper command from above now that they`ve lost both Kevan and Jaime Lannister. Daven Lannister has been trying to rally the forces against the pressure from the riverlords who have been raiding and setting fire to their camps, but to little avail – the Lannisters are being pressed up the crossing to the Twins and a possible siege that will keep them away from their homes, children and wives. Meanwhile one Targaryen is marching for King’s Landing as another’s sails are expected to breach the horizon any moment.”

“And Littlefinger?” she asked, an ominous feeling spreading in the pit of her stomach at the guarded look entering Elder Brother’s eyes.

“Gone. And so is Brynden Tully. The Blackfish found that Baelish had left Gulltown by ship. He followed him immediately with the men he had to hand. I`ve not received any messages from him, I`ve had no news of either of their fates… The last message I received spoke of Nestor Royce’s daughter’s disappearance at the same time as Lord Baelish’s, and even though not a trace of evidence can be found to pin her disappearance to Baelish… the Blackfish made it clear what he thought.”

Some small part of Sansa wanted to scream in frustration and fright at this turn of events, but the core of her wasn`t even surprised. _You can plan all you like, but once the battle starts you fight for your life anyway…_ Another detail nagged at her, though. “So he might have Randa. Was she the young woman who disappeared during Petyr’s search for me?” she asked, hoping to be wrong about the differences in time.

“No… _that_ woman’s name is Mya Stone, I believe you know her as well.” _Oh, no… Petyr, what have you done?_ Elder Brother looked down before he glanced at her again. “She… my lady… she was tortured nearly to death, but apparently kept your secret, or else I`m afraid to say that every sellsword north of Duskendale would have been on you the second you came down from the mountains,” he said quietly, studying her intently. _Looking for cracks in my walls at hearing what has happened to my friends…_ But Sansa had learned to school her features in front of a cruel king, so schooling them in front of the bannermen she needed to impress was easy, if incredibly painful.

“What about Bronze Yohn?” she asked, careful to keep her voice even if maybe a bit too cold. It was that or cry her heart out. Randa had seemed so sure of their safety…

“He has taken control of the Vale, and stands as Lord Protector in Harry the Heir’s stead. He has sent his best men after Littlefinger, with the authority to arrest him on sight for… the murder of Robert Arryn… even though nothing can be tied directly to Baelish in this case either, and the crown never will accept the arrest,” Elder Brother said in his deep, calm voice, sympathy shining in his eyes as Sansa’s throat tightened painfully in grief. “And he has called the banners of the Great Lords of the Vale to come to the riverlands’ aid, to finally defend Riverrun.”

“Good,” Sansa answered, proud of herself for not swallowing, keeping her chin high and her sorrow out of her voice by a hair. “When they find Littlefinger, tell them to bring him to me.”

“Another thing,” Elder Brother continued. “Mya Stone’s mistreatment made one of Bealish’s men turn his coat and give information and evidence against Littlefinger. And Bronze Yohn already has Lyn Corbray in the dungeons, with some quite interesting stories to tell, as it turns out.”

“Lothor Brune turned his coat,” Sansa murmured, thinking aloud, making Elder Brother look at her in surprise. “And they have Ser Lyn… I think he will have much more to say once they turn his keep on end and find all the small boys he has tucked away for his pleasures… I have codes and names enough to track Littlefinger’s eyes and ears, even if he has sent orders for them to report differently… _and_ I have his hired men as captives.” 

Lady Mallister looked at her quite differently now than before, Sansa noticed, and Elder Brother looked nearly rueful as Sansa turned this new information over in her head. “I`m more or less sure he`s on his way to take his seat at Harrenhal, to collect it and the Lannister forces stationed there under Ser Bonifer Hasty. It`s the only thing that makes sense. That, or King’s Landing and the Spider, to build a new foundation in the void inside the chaos left by Kevan Lannister’s death,” she concluded, knowing Petyr would never flee to the free cities or something like that. 

He`d told her once that when Riverrun became too hot for him after supposedly having taken her mother’s maidenhead, he just moved his base – or Hoster Tully had moved _him,_ but nonetheless... Petyr would always find new possibilities for growth, both in status and where golden dragons were concerned, and in Westeros he had several. By ensuring no capable heir was left in the Vale, he might even manipulate the crown to give it back to him… say in exchange for Sansa Stark… a Lannister crown or a Targaryen crown, it was all the same for a man who had only ever cared for money and a higher status… and Catelyn Tully, of course. Duly transferred to Catelyn’s daughter. _Oh, Petyr, where did this mess begin? You could have been such a great man. Now you`re just a little man with great plans…_

“Please send word to Bronze Yohn of what we`ve discussed here. Use the men sent to scout for me to patrol the Trident instead, and I need men on the road to Harrenhal and on the Kingsroad as well. If he sails around the Whispers we will need to plan a surprise welcome in King’s Landing… through the Faith of the Seven, perhaps? And pray the Targaryens don`t get there before us…” she said, her voice low and clear, looking Elder Brother straight in the eye. “We will all wait here until we receive more news. I also have a meeting with Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood Without Banners that I would rather not attend alone.”

The riverlanders looked at her in shock, having struggled with the Hangwoman for half the war, Sansa supposed. But Elder Brother just bowed his head. “As my lady commands,” he murmured, quickly followed by the others, Leslyn Mallister curtsying noticeably deeper this time.

“We will speak more of this when my men are fit to join us,” Sansa added, putting on a smile. “I`m curious to hear what Jaime will have to add about the Lannister forces… In the meantime, I wonder if you could all grant me a favour.”

Calling Long Jeyne from the kitchens, Sansa simply asked her how she would feel about the orphan boys receiving military training.

“It`s a good thing in this world, m’lady, to know how to fight. I`ll get them,” Long Jeyne answered, matter of fact, and bobbed a peasant’s curtsy before she left.

Promptly, every orphan who wanted to learn, boy and girl alike, was lined up in the yard before Ser Robin and the three squires. There was an impressive number of both gender. Gendry showed up as well, looking uncomfortable and not presenting himself as a knight at all, even though Long Jeyne had confirmed to Sansa that he actually _had_ been knighted by Dondarrion. Pia took the girls who didn`t want to fight but wanted to know how to behave around lords and ladies, having been a servant for Lady Whent herself, and Lady Mallister had - to Sansa’s great surprise - offered to tutor the children in the history of Westeros. She meant it more as teaching them the stories and songs of the Age of Heroes and the Targaryen conquests, but Sansa actually thought it a much better way to catch the interest of rough orphans.

Elder Brother joined Sansa in the stable to look at the injured horses, and ended up giving herbs to them as well. He looked worriedly at Stranger’s shoulder, but told Sansa she couldn`t have done a better job with the difficult mount, and that _not_ stitching up that shoulder wound was a much better option than doing it. He even told Sansa to walk him as soon as Stranger could manage it. 

She sat down on Sandor’s bed as the dim, silver light from the moon kissed the walls of their room once more, having told Willow to wake her personally the next day. Jaime and Brienne were already asleep, holding hands again. 

Stroking Sandor’s shoulder gently, she watched as he opened his eyes and looked at her, and smiled at how _clear_ he seemed, even though his eyes were bloodshot and he still looked completely drained. Sansa could have kissed Elder Brother in relief. 

“Seven hells, Little Bird, _please_ tell me you have something stronger than watered ale in that skin,” he murmured, grey eyes resting on the basket she`d set down on the floor.

“I have. But are you really sure drinking a lot of wine will be good for you now?” she tried, remembering Elder Brother’s words and thinking that his body surely needed _water_ as it was so incredibly thirsty all the time, careful to take her hand away so that she wouldn`t touch him if he didn`t want her to.

Sandor snorted softly. “In this wretched state, _you_ could easily drink me to the floor… just give me some fucking relief… I won`t growl at you,” he ended more or less in a whisper, making Sansa’s heart go out to him as she held the skin to his mouth and watched him drink, silently wondering if Jaime had talked to him, until Sandor let go gasping for breath.

“I was sure I`d lost you the night before last,” she whispered back, all too aware of the two other people in the room, even if they were asleep. She stroked tentatively up Sandor’s neck as he closed his eyes and gripped his side again, as he`d done for the last two days, suddenly feeling on the verge of tears, both for him, Sweetrobin, and Randa and Mya’s uncertain fates. “Do you feel any better at all?” 

“I still feel like shit,” he muttered tiredly, but didn`t snarl at her caressing him.

“Jaime said the exact same thing,” Sansa answered, feeling all her confused grief, fright and compassion blend into the wonderful feeling of just _talking_ properly to him again. 

“Sensible bastard,” he grunted in reply. “Seven hells, I thought he`d snuffed it.” 

He seemed exhausted by those few sentences, out of breath, so Sansa just stroked his hair silently while he closed his eyes, waiting for the wine to work yet again. Her fingertips stroking over his face, following the scarring from his forehead and down the twisted tissue of his cheek to his jaw line, over the place where bone was apparent, finding it just another part of him. And he let her caress him, opening his eyes slowly as she stroked over his bearded good cheek as well, scraping her nails gently over his scalp, from his faintly bruised temple and into his hair. 

“And I thought _you_ were as far away as your wings could take you, Little Bird,” he added, a bit too late, grey eyes fastening on her own, a glint of his usual piercing gaze shining through despite already starting to look more relaxed, or just plain drunk.

“Don`t be angry with Brienne, I had to… twist the situation out of her grip,” she answered, having forgotten about that and suddenly feeling anxious for his judgment.

“Bugger me, you`ll be difficult to guard in the future,” he murmured from his pillow. “And now you`ve flipped some nobles around and turned this wretched place on its head, Brienne tells me.”

“Yes, and set Elder Brother to patching up horses,” she answered brightly, lowering her shoulders as he chuckled wearily.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered without any energy at all, half-smiling wryly at her, even though his eyes started to take on a quite dazed look, his hand at his side relaxing slightly. She nonchalantly took his swearing as praise, and grinned in return, knowing him too well by now.

“Are you hungry?” she asked gently.

“No. Too bloody nauseous and dizzy,” he slurred slightly, looking half asleep. “Thirsty, though.”

“But… you haven`t eaten in days… and… I`m frightened for you,” she murmured, as she helped him drink water from a cup, this time without protest as the wine had apparently already done its deed. “And, Sandor…” she started, feeling her walls crumble all over. “Sweetrobin is dead, and Randa has disappeared, and Mya… Petyr nearly killed her,” she continued, hearing how her voice dwindled into nothing. 

Sandor struggled to focus on her. “That`s… a bitch, Little Bird,” he slurred, looking lost for better words. “That`s how this shitty world works, though… I told you so, a fucking long time ago…”

Sansa felt her tears leak down her cheeks nonetheless. “Can you please just hold me?” she whispered. “I know how the world works, it`s still… still… it`s my _responsibility,_ and I`m so tired of losing everyone I care about...”

He moved over, achingly slowly, and dragged his shield-arm around her as she lay down on his other arm, pressing her face into his neck as she finally allowed herself to cry for her friends, for Sweetrobin, and how horrible it was to be powerless.”

“You could have told me before you filled my head with strongwine, though,” Sandor slurred, sounding almost irritated. “Can`t just topple a man and then expect him to be fucking awake for long, out of his wits with drink.”

Sansa smiled through her tears at his strange way of trying to comfort her. “Elder Brother is worried about your drinking, you know,” she sniffled into his neck, her lips moving over his skin. 

“Fucking arse,” Sandor replied, sounding just as drunk as he was. “I`ll cut him to pieces and beat him until his insides have turned to mush and see how he likes it with nothing to dull the pain.”

“You have to be able to move first,” she laughed through her tears, kissing his neck.

“Valid point,” he sighed, and fell asleep in her arms.

Sansa laid thinking in Sandor’s embrace for a long time after her crying had subsided, her thoughts spinning round and round Petyr’s grand schemes, how he would slip into the ranks of the mighty once more if she let him. He would thrive in the chaos created by a change of monarch if the Targaryens took the Iron Throne. As he`d thrived in the chaos after King Robert’s death, building himself up to his titles and even more personal wealth by marrying Lysa. _Oh Gods…_ the things said when Petyr had pushed Aunt Lysa out the Moondoor… she`d suddenly remembered… 

Lysa had said Petyr had told her to poison her former husband, the Hand of the King… which was the reason the Starks had moved south at all… but why? What could Petyr have gained from that? And what had happened in King’s Landing during her father’s arrest… and when Jaime had attacked him outside one of Petyr’s brothels? There were simply too many places Littlefinger’s name appeared for Sansa not to feel uneasy about the whole thing. 

Could Petyr Baelish possible have arranged it all?


	29. Bugger you, Gods…

Sandor’s days blurred together, hazy memories of being tended to, of Sansa’s voice sliding in and out of half-dreams and foggy awareness. And pain. Red pain, burning pain, thudding pain, stabbing pain. Fucking all consuming pain. Swirling and surging, mixing into his dreams and colouring his vision when his eyes opened to fling him into too much light, too much noise, too much to hold onto.

Her body was sometimes against him and sometimes not, the dizzy nauseous feeling of losing hold of what the fuck was up and what was down having him searching for her. If she was there it was night. Sometimes. If she was there, he knew what was down. At least. If she was there he could try to breathe in her scent and feel how her arms held him together, no matter how claustrophobic it was. 

Her arms felt _real,_ a fixed point in his diffuse, chaotic state. Holding him away from the shimmering, alluring peace he knew he could not succumb to, swirling too close, being too fucking seductive, too bloody dangerous. His side was screaming, ripping, tearing him away from everything until all he could do was hold on as she held him. Clutch the hardness under his skin that shouldn`t be there. Roar back in refusal to yield, knowing that not a sound escaped his lips.

He knew he had talked to her, he knew she had cried, but he couldn`t seem to stay focused, always drifting and floating, trying not to drown in agony, trying to bloody breathe, panicking at too much _touching,_ petting, fussing. Needing relief. Needing wine. Strong, burning liquor etching mercifully down his throat, filling his stomach with instant heat, spreading numbness like a caress, blackness instead of the red haze of raging pain, dousing the gates of the seven hells. So he could breathe air down into his lungs. So he could sleep. So he could remember why the Lion told him to stop growling. 

But he _was_ beginning to clear up. Resurface. He remembered shaking agony and a crying bird who`d kissed his fingers. He remembered being held close _without_ panicking. And he`d woken up to find Elder Brother. Why was he here? Was Sandor back at the Quiet Isle? No… the fucking Inn at the Crossroads… and Sansa had looked hungrily at him…

After that he actually managed to stay focused enough to hold on to what was said to him between winehazes and the heavy fog from the milk of the poppy. Sometimes, at least. He knew that Brienne had told him that the inn was filled with orphans instead of whores now, and that Sansa had had every fucking brat scrubbed down. Representatives of the riverlords had apparently arrived with Elder Brother and Sansa had shown her mettle. While Sandor lay bedridden, sliding in and out of drunken reality and dreams, not quite knowing what was what…

Sansa stroked over him later that night, dragged him to the surface, and they had talked as his side pulsed forks of pain down his legs and up his spine, and just when the wine worked him nearly unconscious, she cried again. He tried to hold her in return, tried to comfort her, but he was too drunk, too lost, too fucking useless. Couldn`t she just stop weeping for two blasted seconds? Her sobs entwining themselves into the strings of sobbing from another time, like fucking pearls of tears threaded on a string, spiralling down and down into a darkness that moved with all the horrors he didn`t _want_ to remember. 

But as the thick mist of the first days lifted for true, he started tasting the bitter flavour of what was in the cups Sansa put to his mouth, getting less and less of the milk of the poppy and the strong, pure wine that kept him away from losing his footing and dropping into the sea of pain again. It would have been nice enough to get a grip, though, if it hadn`t been for his fucking side. He couldn`t even tell them how fucked up it was, how much it bloody hurt, because for the first time in his life he knew, both awake and dreaming, that somebody flaming cared if he lived or died.

His other injuries were stiff and swollen, painful but liveable, but his side hurt in a way that fucking unnerved him. And in addition to that his blasted head was trying to make him go insane as his body used all its moisture to make new blood. The little he had left seeped out inside him, spreading until he thought his blue side would fucking burst at the pressure and swelling, the stabs of agony squeezing the breath out of him, strength out of him, _life_ out of him. He drank water in buckets, and obediently swallowed down the soup and broth his Little Bird kept giving him, doing everything he could to stick it out as _his lady_ had commanded, even though the dizziness and pain made him so nauseous that he could barely hold it down. He just didn`t know if it was bloody enough.

Sleep was not a problem right now, feeling so drained that holding his eyes open for an hour was enough to make him feel as if he`d run for half a day. Waking up was another matter. Trying to get his eyes open on his own was a bloody claustrophobic experience, trapped in himself as he was. But the feeling of her hands on him gave him something to latch onto, a direction to follow as he slowly regained awareness of the room with whitewashed walls, grey daylight streaming through the window. And for the first time since having the shit beaten out of him, he found himself feeling… better… 

Blinking up at old but sturdy roof-beams with long shallow cracks and a few knotholes, he saw Sansa watching him with her Tully-blue eyes, auburn hair braided back from her face… and felt his mouth twitch into a half grin. She smiled back at him, showing her pretty teeth and all her warmth. Fuck, how much nicer it was to wake up and have _her_ instead of just armour to clean and weapons to hone… It was quiet in the room but he could hear the faint noise of sparring from outside the window. And hammering. Pounding in pace with his head. Glancing towards Jaime revealed him sleeping in the bed next to his own, and bloody hells – how had the bastard survived? 

Sansa stroked over his hair and down his neck as Sandor stretched carefully, looking down his sword arm at the myriad of stitched up cuts, finding them itching and dry. Healing nicely. His shield arm still hurt like fuck when he moved it, bandaged up to his shoulder and over his elbow, but he could at least move it more now. Testing how his body was working revealed that his ribs stung if he breathed too deeply, but he _could_ breathe, and that was bloody something. His side was flaming agony, but stroking over it revealed that the swelling had gone down a bit, and his leg was stiff and aching but a whole lot better. And, he desperately needed to take a piss.

Trying to raise himself up proved futile, though. Dizziness punching him straight in his face and had him flat on his back again instantly. 

“If you want to get up, I _could_ help you, you know,” Sansa said, a touch of prim innocence in her voice as she caressed his neck, her nails trailing his skin, feeling fucking wonderful. 

He tried to glare at her for mocking him when he`d flaming _tried,_ at least, but it just ended in a rueful twist of his mouth instead. “Then help me the fuck up, _my lady,_ as I`m obviously too bloody useless to do it myself right now,” he half-grumbled at her, watching how her smile widened. 

“Lucky for you, your lady feels particularly graceful today, my ill-mannered non-ser,” she answered, playfully haughty, and bent down to gently wind her arms in under his own.

He snorted at that and folded his sword arm around her, weakly pulling her down next to him, holding her as tightly as he could fucking manage at the moment as he inhaled the rosy scent of her, dragging her closer even though his side protested furiously. She just laughed softly and shifted, pulling her legs up on the mattress, gently adjusting until they lay close, holding each other with only his covers between them. Seven hells, he _was_ getting too used to practically have her as his wife… going back to pretending to be just her shield was going to burn harder than his side right now. 

He stroked his hand slowly down her back and over her arse, clumsily trying to pull her even closer, feeling the warm, tumbling, bloody joyous feeling high in his chest expand, needing her… fucking loving her. And found her in breeches again. Hells… had she been in skirts at all? He`d thought so, at least.

“Have I just imagined you in skirts acting the impeccable lady, Little Bird?” he muttered as he stroked down her thigh, surprising himself as echoes of lust shimmered faintly within him, even though he didn`t have the strength to chase them.

She smiled into his neck and sighed as his fingers touched her, pressing herself gently towards his body. “No, I`ve been in skirts for two days, but I`ve been down in the yard training with Brienne and tending to the horses,” she grinned. “I`ll go take a bath and _be_ the perfect lady again now, I just needed to check on you first.”

Fucking hells… images of Sansa bathing were suddenly floating through his head. And here he lay, not even able to get up and take a piss. “So you thought you`d just drop in to taunt me with images of you wet and naked, now did you?” he murmured into her hair. “When I`m in no condition to do anything else than get bloody frustrated?”

She just snorted softly. “Serves you right, laying here all undressed and muscular, tempting me for days,” she murmured back playfully, kissing his neck, and making Sandor grin at the honesty beneath her teasing tone as he felt her hand stroke down his back and over _his_ arse. 

“You`re a fucking bold bird, aren`t you?” he muttered, feeling himself stir even though he knew it was hopeless as her hand stroked over his hip, caressing his stomach through the sheet.

“And you`re one starved dog,” she replied softly, dragging the covers aside to look at him. “You need to eat more. You didn`t have any fat to lose in the first place, and now you`re starting to look hollow,” she ended in a concerned murmur, just as Sandor heard the rustle of sheets behind him.

“Ah … Love-birds, that`s an impressively bad position to be found in,” the Lion chuckled wryly from the sidelines, adding a mighty yawn before continuing. “But don`t mind me, I`m quite used to improper behaviour - as long as I don`t find the two of you fucking in my bed beside me I`ll be more than thrilled!” 

Sandor laughed despite himself, and instantly groaned as his injuries fucking caught fire. Sansa just dropped the sheet and more or less squeaked, about to slide lightning-quick off his bed until he grabbed her wrist and tugged her back down beside him, the world spinning with the strain. “Bugger you, Jaime,” he bloody wheezed in between mirth and agony, completely out of breath just with that, turning towards Jaime as he tried to hoist his mortified Little Bird up on his sword arm again. 

“Splendid idea! It`s been far too long, actually. I`ll go notify Brienne the minute I can convince my head not to betray me and turn the world upside down halfway down the stairs,” Jaime replied, looking like a fucking map of Westeros, colourful enough to shame a Tyroshi.

Sandor grinned. “How`s the rest of your battleprice, you bastard?”

“Can`t complain, stitched up and healing instead of rotting in a ditch. But fuck me if you`re not really starting to come around at last, Sandor?” Jaime said, actually sounding glad for it, before his tone turned dry. “You must really have lost an amazing amount of blood to first lie more or less cold for four days and then wake up positively sweet and caring.” 

“You`re calling me by first name now?” Sandor grumbled in return, somewhat surprised both by that and Jaime’s fucking happiness.

“Yes, that, insults and house-sigils, dog,” the Lion grinned, making Sandor shrug his shoulders. The blurred memory of the man about to finish him falling with a Lion-adorned dagger sticking out of his neck suddenly vivid as hell. 

“Fair enough,” he muttered as Sansa shifted against him, the severe need to take a piss turning into yet another kind of pain. “Who the fuck can help me to the bloody privy around here? Can`t even get up on my own…” he finished, irritation spiking through him at his own state.

It turned out that Sansa instantly went insane and Brienne sprouted wings. Sansa just kissed him joyously on the mouth and was at the window a heartbeat later, calling for the large wench, and before Sandor could blink Brienne stood before him, sweaty from the training yard and flashing him a wide grin as Elder Brother came striding into the room looking equally pleased. Seven hells… for a piss?

Getting him up turned out to be a fucking battle of wills as Elder Brother suggested that Sandor should just bloody _urinate_ into a jug, as he put it, and Sansa became worried and started fussing and Brienne blushed and Jaime laughed. The noise too much, the hands on his body too much, his head hurting too much. Sandor just snapped.

“Get the fuck out of my face all of you! Who in the seven hells do you think you are? My flaming wet-nurses?” he ended up roaring, his anger burning his breath away, making black flecks prickle before his eyes as his vision blurred, stubborn will alone making him continue to glare at them all.

Elder Brother managed to send him his most condescending glance before he just continued checking Sandor’s pulse with one hand as he felt his blue-green side with the other, ignoring his outburst. Ignoring him like he was fucking seven years old and could easily be held down by the servants as another old bat poured boiling wine on Sandor’s melted face. His temper instantly flared into a furnace, red-hot rage pulsing through him as he furiously flung the hand at his neck away and grabbed the front of Elder Brother’s robe, jerking his face down in front of his own, having to fucking concentrate to stop himself from just ripping his throat out.

“When I tell you to get the fuck away from me, you bloody _listen,_ old man, or I`ll flaming wring your neck no matter who you are, robe or not,” he snarled breathlessly, the burnt side of his mouth twitching, watching how the light changed in Elder Brother’s eyes, a hardened core of pure violence gleaming in return deep down in their blue debts. Sandor grinned maliciously at him through the black dots distorting his vision, fuck him for all his bloody _pious_ humbleness. “I _knew_ you had it in you,” he murmured hoarsely, baring his teeth, and pushed Elder Brother hard away from him.

Elder Brother regained his balance, any traces of fury evaporating as he held Sandor’s gaze, stroking out the wrinkled front of his robe. “Yes, Sandor… most men do. But I`ve learned a better way to use my energy than threatening the ones who wish me well,” he answered calmly. “Although, I can see that I crossed a boundary, and for that, I apologise,” he finished quietly, looking fucking _pitying_ at him. He fucking _hated_ that look, so why in the seven hells would it make him feel like ten kinds of shit? 

The whole thing just made him angrier. That they just stood there looking at him like he was a fucking dwarf on a pig made it surge into a rage he had no strength to unleash. Stubbornly clenching his teeth together, he started raising himself up on his own, feeling their eyes and their bloody silence, Elder Brother’s fucking pity. Dizziness slammed through him, nausea welling up for each time he put his sword arm further underneath him, pushing himself slowly up into a sitting position, angrily ignoring the jolts of pain forking out from his injuries and the sweat breaking out on his skin. 

Trying hard not to just black out into fucking unconsciousness, he got his legs over the side of the bed, wrapping his covers around himself more or less one-armed, using a bit too long time even for that as he tried to bloody catch his breath, tried to avoid emptying his guts out right there in front of everyone.

“Sandor…” Sansa murmured hesitantly, moving carefully towards him where he sat gasping for breath, flaming pleading with him. “I`m sorry if we got a bit overexcited, it`s just we`ve been so worried and… please let us help you,” she finished in a distressed whisper.

Sandor closed his eyes and rubbed his aching forehead, finding his stitches gone as he wiped off the sweat from the unburnt side of it. And felt her fingertips touch his back, feather-light, her breath on his shoulder as the mattress dipped when she sat down beside him. And then she fucking kissed his skin, before them all.

He opened his eyes and turned his head, surprised. Fighting the double wave of nausea and dizziness crashing through his body and head, and tried to focus on her with his head pounding. Her arms went gently around him, working like a fucking balm on his fury, her hand stroking up his neck and gently pushing him down so his hammering forehead rested against hers.

“Please?” she whispered, holding him towards her, making something deep inside him shatter, making him want to just give in and lean on her.

“Fuck, you fight dirty,” he grumbled back, dropping headfirst down into the flaming loving her too bloody much trap she`d lain so prettily right in front of him. 

She only smiled sweetly, her tenderness soothing, the way she was caressing him like this for the others to see somehow making him feel better. _Fucking priceless._ Bugger him for a lovesick fool…

“Come then, I`ll help you,” she murmured smilingly, sealing it all by stroking fucking lovingly down his back, snaking her hand around him and hugging his shoulder gently no matter how clammy he was. What the fuck was a messed up man to do when faced with such weapons as that? 

Brienne ended up more or less carrying him, her arm strong under Sandor’s own and around his back, her shoulders broad and unyielding when he put his weight onto her as his legs wouldn`t fucking do the job. Sansa was walking slowly beside him down the hallway, glancing amusedly at him and Brienne for some reason, and Elder Brother trailed in their wake. _Carried by a woman to the privy… fucking hell…_ Bloody embarrassing to say the least and flaming agony as well, fuck him hard through all seven hells…

So Sandor brooded silently on the itching feeling of being twined around Sansa’s fingers. He`d always despised the male idiots who`d seemed prone to that sort of pathetic behavior around pretty and cunning women, so how the fuck had he ended up doing exactly as Sansa wished, being bloody petted like a good dog afterwards and even flaming liked it? Grumblingly sighing in defeat, he couldn`t even find it in him to care. She was no Cersei, and she _did_ care for him, he was pretty sure she fucking _loved_ him – something tugged at his memory at that… but seven hells, that would bloody well have to be enough.

He was completely done for by the time he reached his bed again, his whole body on fire, his side and head pulsing in time. He had a vague idea of trying to sit down on it and then the world disappeared as Brienne grunted with the strain of keeping him from falling, but he did. Tumbling down into blessed, oblivious darkness.

The next few days was a series of being disturbed out of that darkness to be fed and watered like a fucking ox, lead by his imaginary nose-ring to the privy, prodded and poked when assured he wouldn`t roar, washed, shaved and filled with strongwine, milk of the poppy, herbs and red beet soup. Elder Brother and a bloody sour-faced wench tended to his wounds, the robed man seemingly a bit too pleased by Sansa’s work, admiring the stitches as if Sandor was a piece of bloody embroidery every flaming time. Jaime was as fucked as he was, mostly sleeping and needing help to not just reel headfirst into the nearest wall when out of bed. The both of them silently agreed that it fucking saved their necks that somebody had had the foresight to station the skinny little brat by the door to fetch things and help them when nobody else was around. 

Sansa herself came and went during the day and climbed into his bed to hold him during the night. She murmured to him about Jaime’s squires and how the questioning of their captives had revealed a network she could use in Lord Harroway’s Town, and mused about Littlefinger’s grand schemes, the wait for new information on the Blackfish and Baelish. Stroking over him, she shared her worry over some fucking smith’s connections to Lady bloody Stoneheart, that she was afraid the fucking rats’ arses that followed her undead mother might show up before reinforcements arrived. All of it was important, her safety most of all, even though she assured him she was well taken care of. Trouble was, it was simply too bloody much for him to wrap his exhausted and drugged mind around, the frustrating conclusion being that he couldn`t do shit about anything anyway, because mostly, he just slept and fucking tried to heal. 

Sandor’s head hammered like hell again when he woke to Elder Brother come to do the daily cleaning of his wounds on the seventh day on his fucking back. Sansa was with him, though, instead of the sour wench, so that was something at least.

He hadn`t said anything about the blasted headache that had lasted for days as it reminded him too much of his brother to even admit to having it himself unless hungover. But as the strongwine dwindled and the milk of the poppy was down to a minimum, the headache got worse and he couldn`t even blame it on a massive hangover. Buggering shit…

So when Elder Brother narrowed his eyes at Sandor wincing despite himself when the curtains were opened and daylight hit him hard in the face, he felt his irritation flare just because the man was being too fucking observant. Again.

“Does your head hurt, Sandor?”

Sansa turned worried eyes at him immediately and Sandor started cursing inwardly at the frustration that every single person around him seemed to think that they had a right to mean something about fucking everything.

“Don`t fuss, it`ll pass,” he muttered, getting bloody nauseous as memories of Gregor roaring for milk of the poppy mixed itself into the mess. The terror unleashed by how his aggression seemed to expand when getting it, or maybe he`d just lost the last reserves he might have had, the tiny drop of empathy left inside the hellhole that supposedly had been his brain.

Elder Brother sighed. “You don`t give me much to work on, my friend,” he said, sounding fucking exasperated.

“Fuck off…” Sandor groaned in return, pushing the images in his head away as his irritation expanded.

“Do you have any herbs to help with that?” Sansa asked Elder Brother. “Because of… he shouldn`t… he`s been drunk and drugged for more or less a week now…” Her voice trailed off, concern painted on her features as she met Elder Brother’s eyes over the bed. Seven hells he hated being ignored, and the obsession with him and drink was starting to annoy the shit out of him.

“I don`t need any fucking herbs, I`ll bloody sprout leaves if I`m forced to swallow any more of that piss. And what the fuck have I done now for you to twist yourself into a knot every bloody time I get close to a wineskin, Sansa?” he growled, glaring at her.

“I`m… it`s just… with the milk of the poppy being so addictive and you…” she broke away from his gaze to seek guidance from Elder brother again, making Sandor’s anger burn hot and strong.

“I know the fucking milk of the poppy’s addictive! My blasted brother used to drink it in fucking pints for _his_ headaches! I can feel very well for myself how bloody fucked up I get on that goat’s piss, but it`s not like I`ve been lying here screaming for more, now is it?” he snarled, bugger him for every bloody good intention, trying to flaming clear up instead of just fucking terrorizing the shit out of everyone around him like his hellish brother had used to since he was a bloody brat. 

Sansa swallowed as she met his gaze again, but obviously found it fucking necessary to push through even more. “That`s good to hear, Sandor,” she said patiently, “but you _did_ drink a lot before, and I care too much about you to see you slide into old habits again, that`s why I suggested the herbs. To help you,” she finished calmly, like he was a dim-witted child too stupid not to stick it’s head into a hornets’ nest. The unfairness of it kicked him right into rage.

“Seven hells, Sansa! I`ve been as sober as a fucking septa with one bloody exception for months! How the fuck can you keep nagging about what I did off duty several years ago?” he shouted at her, instantly breathless and dizzy with the outburst, his head doing its best to crack in two.

“Sandor…” Elder Brother started in a soothing tone, making him even more furious just as Sansa started nagging again.

“I know you`ve been sober, but we had _one_ argument and the first thing you did when we arrived at the inn was to drink yourself completely senseless,” she replied angrily, clutching the jug in her hands as if she wished it was a club. “I`m just trying to take care of you so you don`t get into something you can`t control!”

Sandor stared at her as if she`d just ridden Stranger into his bedroom. “Bloody hells, woman… I was the king’s fucking bodyguard, I was the flaming best the seven kingdoms could cough up. Do you honestly think I would have risen to that status if I couldn`t bloody control what I poured down my throat? Have you forgotten what fucking happened to that Dontos fool? If I got drunk it was because I flaming wanted to!” He felt his rage turn to angry fucking disappointment, his energy spent. She just looked at him, ill at ease, but so bloody stubborn he could positively taste it.

“But you wanted to all too often! And you told me _why_ in the forest, so don`t try to tell me you did it because it was such a nice way to spend your evenings,” she parried through gritted teeth, making him open his mouth before even knowing what in the seven hells to reply.

“Sandor, please…” Elder Brother tried again, but Sandor interrupted him before the bastard could fucking start adding arguments of how deep into the wineskin he`d been upon reaching the Quiet Isle. Not caring to explain his sheer fucking misery and bloody _need_ to send himself to hell at that point.

“Who the fuck cared if I was drunk or not when off duty in King’s Landing? You were a child who didn`t even dare look at me, and I was a grown man with no wife, no lands to take care of, a fucking soldier – we drink and we whore and we gamble, what the fuck did you expect of me?” he snarled breathlessly, watching how Sansa started to look hurt, which just annoyed him even more. “And how in the seven hells could I have known you cared one whit at the mountain inn either, while we`re at it? You`d just told me to bugger my ugly face off to hell!” 

The worst part was that bloody pathetic sadness mixed itself into his fury over the fucking injustice of it all. Especially when she continued to just stand there, staring angrily at him for talking sense, not even having anything to say in return. “Get the fuck out of here, the both of you. Don`t worry – I won`t drink myself to the floor while you`re gone,” he added in a tired growl.

Sansa looked on the verge of tears, but the anger still burned in her eyes as she put the jug of water on the bedside and turned on her heel, walking out the door without another word. Elder Brother sighed and gave him a level look.

“I`ll come back later to clean your wounds,” he said with quiet dignity before following Sansa.

The Lion stirred in his bed, turning towards him as Sandor laid his arm over his eyes to block out both the fucking light and further talk. But of course Jaime couldn`t just hold it in.

“She`s only concerned for you, you arse. You don`t have to bite her head off,” the bugger murmured.

“Don`t you fucking start as well,” Sandor replied without removing his arm.

“Right… but she`s got a point on the theme in general, dog, even though I do agree with you. And, as you`ve obviously fallen drunk into her bed more than once, she _might_ have the right to voice her distress…” Jaime answered drily, making Sandor cringe inwardly. “You know… if what she said the morning after your last heroic drinking night is anything to go by.”

“Back the fuck off with that,” Sandor growled in return. “I`ve seen you too pissed to stand an unholy number of times as well.”

“Undoubtedly,” the Lion answered wryly before his tone turned serious, “but Sansa is intelligent enough to differentiate between drinking oneself under the table once in a while and drinking out of habit. As you clearly don`t know anything about how it is to have a woman who obviously loves you around, I`ll gracefully explain it to you,” he said. “Her worry for you is part of the package – you owe her an apology.” 

“For getting shitfaced _once_ when I didn`t even know she apparently had a claim on me? For drinking myself away from the first days of hell after fucking fighting down an entire hunt for her?” Sandor growled tiredly, his head hammering together with his side and his body screaming for sleep.

“No, for treating her like shit,” Jaime answered, earning a snort in return.

The Lion was silent for enough time for Sandor to have started drifting off when Jaime finally spoke again. “You should have seen her grief,” he said quietly. “You should have heard her weeping her heart out with her arms around you, your blood all over her.” The careful tone made Sandor remove his arm and look at the sod, something warm expanding in him no matter how irrelevant Jaime’s words seemed to the argument at hand. 

“She reached me first?” he grunted, feeling hesitant all of a sudden… a foggy memory of her voice, blood and cold snow stirring inside him.

“Yes, stemming your blood and bandaging you up, her tears freezing on her cheeks as she saved your life and got you to safety. She`s been fighting for you as well, my friend,” Jaime answered, before sighing deeply and continuing. “She quite clearly loves you and she`s worried for your wellbeing. I would have thought you could appreciate that. I remember you when you first came to Casterly Rock; scarred and angry and all on your own - looking so fucking forlorn that I nearly felt sorry for you myself until you started hitting me around the yard, denting my swollen pride.” 

His serious emerald gaze made Sandor’s angry retorts dwindle, Jaime had been nothing if not honest on these matters before, after all. And maybe he`d nailed some of it at least, as nobody had ever had a say in Sandor’s fucking _wellbeing_ before. Bloody hells… Both his father and Gregor had both controlled his life in their own bleeding horrible ways, the Lannisters had valued his life for his fighting skills and what he could fucking stomach to do in service to them – to be rewarded in turn by status and a good wage. His basis for being feared too much for anyone to _ever_ try to fuck with him again. But none of them had cared two shits about how he bloody fared outside what they needed him to do.

“You might have backed me up on my drinking, though,” Sandor muttered, meeting Jaime’s gaze, feeling fucking exhausted by the whole thing.

“I will, don`t worry. But having a woman around that loves you includes more than just moans of pleasure: you become hers in other areas as well, her joy and her worry part of what build your common fundament. And you need to give your part as well,” the Lion said quietly, before his mouth twisted into a wry grin. “That`s what I thought at least, until Cersei tore it all down and burned it to cinders.”

“Bloody hell, that must have stung…” Sandor grumbled, in truth not certain how to respond, still really fucking disgusted by the sibling thing, but thinking Jaime deserved _some_ support at least – as he was pretty sure that was what the Lion had shown him, strangely enough.

“Yes. It hurt so bloody much that I ignored the note in which she pleaded for my help. Cersei. _Pleading._ Can you imagine? For me to return to King’s Landing to champion for her, as it later turned out,” Jaime said softly, looking at the ceiling. “My absence killed off your brother, at least…”

Sandor tried to imagine himself in the Lion’s position. And seven hells… It suddenly felt just fine that his Little Bird was worried for him to try to drown himself in wine on a daily basis again… and it might explain why Jaime found Brienne so refreshing as well…

Sansa didn`t come back that day. Elder Brother did, though, followed by the watch-boy and the sour wench – who turned out to be the innkeep – just to clean him up and tell him that he wasn`t allowed to wander anywhere under any circumstances, except to and from the fucking privy. The bastard even threatened to set a bloody guard on him – Alan or Alyn, or whatever the fuck the little stick of a boy’s name was, looking fucking petrified at the very idea. 

“Where`s my lady?” Sandor grumbled at the innkeep, not quite able to take it up with Elder Brother yet.

“Busy,” the sharp-faced wench replied. _Fuck..._

Jaime studied him silently, before determinedly setting out and bloody _managing_ to talk himself out of bed, his head obviously being judged well enough for light walks. So after Elder Brother had left them alone again, the Lion threw him a glance, got dressed and went in search of Sansa on Sandor’s behalf… or just… fuck, did she really expect him to apologise? ‘Give his part,’ fucking hell… he was rubbish at apologising and bloody well knew it himself… his whole body went straight into opposition at the very idea of admitting guilt instead of just taking the blame…

Brienne and Sansa were supposed to have moved into a room of their own, now that he was stable and Jaime didn`t need to be woken up every few hours, but Sansa had come to him every night, her little pretend-maid covering up in the mornings. But she didn`t come as the evening went by and neither did the Lion. _Probably fucking Brienne in a hayloft. Understandable enough…_

So he ended up lying there, half slumbering, wondering where the fuck she was and what she was up to that was so _bloody_ important that he needed to wait until he turned grey-haired before she could find it in her to show up… knowing she might not come at all… and feeling fucking strange. He`d never needed _anyone_ before, he`d been bleeding fine with some Dornish red and a woman to find his release in if he felt like it. Hadn`t he told her that once? All a man needs… Add a decent tavern brawl and he would`ve had a hell of a night… 

But he fucking regretted their row already, feeling bloody miserable and annoyed at the same time. Finding himself missing Sansa, the bed flaming empty without her… something deep down underneath all his anger and resentment telling him he might have missed having this… _intimacy_ for a very long time… The sudden need of wine bloody mocking him.

He`d given up waiting hours ago, so the soft click of the door came as a fucking pleasant surprise, the rustle as she undressed and the sound of her bare feet on the floor soothing as hell. And his Little Bird’s warm body slipping down under the covers beside him, her slender arms embracing him, felt so bloody good that he embraced her in turn and buried his face in her neck in fucking reflex.

“I`m sorry,” she whispered through the darkness. “I was frightened for you, but Jaime suggested that… you need to be taken for who you are _today,_ not your past, and… I agree. I actually defended you to Elder Brother the day he arrived, so… I see how unfair it must have felt for you.” 

_Fuck, Jaime – suspiciously straight to the target, you bastard. I`m obviously not the only one with some shit best left undisturbed here… thanks…_

“I`m just not used to… I`ve bloody tried to… ah, fuck it – I`m sorry I shouted at you. I… like that you… seem to bloody care for me,” he grumbled in return, feeling the supreme fool until Sansa made a small sound and kissed him softly. Her hands caressing his body when he pressed her towards him in turn as all traces of misery were miraculously erased by two fucking repetitions of the small word ‘sorry’. Flaming unbelievable…

Sansa snuggled up against him, gently twining her legs into his, careful of his side and bandaged injuries as she yawned sweetly, her hands tracing the muscles in his back, the sigh escaping her lips sounding suspiciously like she would have liked to do quite a lot more. But even with her supple body pressed to his own, lust starting to simmer in him, he knew perfectly well that he wasn`t capable of doing anything more satisfactory right now than holding her back and being bloody happy she was there. Fucking frustrating beyond belief.

 _But,_ even if he was useless, _she_ might not be, though… He kissed her neck tentatively and stroked his fingertips up her leg, resting his hand under her arse, and felt her soft exhale and the way she stilled beside him. Encouraged, he kissed her up under her ear and let his fingers trace the underside of her arse to between her legs, as far as his blasted arm could twist. Her breathing had changed the second he started kissing her and she sighed, spreading her legs slightly at the touch of his fingers, her hips moving in tiny circles. Fucking hell, her eagerness was so bloody intoxicating…

“Little Bird… I can`t fucking please you,” he whispered hoarsely at her, wondering how the fuck he could get her to touch herself without bloody fainting at his proposal.

She didn`t answer at first, just breathed fast beside his temple as he traced the union of her firm arse and her thigh, one arm around his neck and the other stroking tightly over his shoulder. “What would you have _wanted_ to do to please me, then?” she finally whispered back, which would have bloody made him rock-hard any other time. _Oh, fuck me through all seven hells…_

“Stroked you lightly between your legs,” he started hoarsley, feeling her instant ragged exhale, “and felt your hips roll up against my hand as I flicked my thumb over your wet nub. That, and taken your nipples in my mouth until you fucking impaled yourself onto my fingers, gasping for more,” he whispered back, breathing heavier himself.

She half moaned, half laughed softly at him through the darkness. “I thought you would simply reply ‘fucked you’,” she breathed back, her hips moving as he let her pretty behind go and held her towards him. “You`re being gallant again, Sandor,” she whispered mirthfully.

“No, I`m bloody not,” he grinned back. “Just answering your flaming question. You asked me what I would do to please _you,_ not me. If I fucked you, you would hurt.”

That didn`t seem to phase her at all, she only took his hand and laid back as she gently placed it under her teat, squirming when he let his thumb caress her nipple.

“ _Could_ you fuck me?” she whispered, sounding mortified for even asking.

“Ah, seven hells…” he breathed, cursing those bastards the Gods, who were probably laughing themselves as out of breath as he was. “Sansa, I`m fucking sorry… if I tried mounting you right now I would bloody well fall right off again,” he finished, feeling as useful as a naked sheep.

Something which Sansa noticed immediately, of course. “I`m sorry, I should never had suggested… and in your state… Sandor, I feel awful, really!” she murmured, stopping every movement and starting to tuck him in like a lost child.

“Don`t… fuck, Sansa! I feel like shit because I`m useless, don`t make me feel like shit because I fucked up your pleasure as well,” he muttered, dragging the covers loose and pulling her towards him again. “My turn to ask a fucking question.”

Sansa didn`t seem convinced, but laid gently down on his sword-arm and kissed his shoulder. “What do you want to know?”

“How do you please yourself?” he murmured, hoarser than usual, and could fucking _feel_ her stare in return.

“I… I… this is quite unseemly,” she whispered, embarrassed.

“More _unseemly_ than having my face between your legs, licking you until your cunt tightened around my fingers? Or you sucking my cock until I fucking lost my mind with the pleasure?” he whispered back, in a strange state of exhaustion and excitement, aroused but not really hard, wanting her to find her pleasures on her own and finding how much it fucking turned him on.

She laughed at him. “Do you really want to know?” she whispered, the breathlessness back in her voice.

“Yes,” he replied, adjusting so he could kiss her neck again, feeling how her hand started wandering over his body because she liked it for herself. How her fingers tightened around the scarred muscles in his lower arm, wandering up to squeeze his shoulder but being careful of the bandaged area in between, starting to stroke tightly over his back and chest as he kissed and grazed her neck gently with his teeth.

“I… started dreaming of you right after I left King’s Landing… I didn`t quite understand the sensations those dreams made me feel at first, but… then I peaked in my sleep, and I found myself longing for it awake as well, so…” Her voice was soft as she spoke, and Sandor felt a thrill as her hand left his body to trail down her own, her nipples stiff where they touched the unbandaged part of his upper body.

“So..?” he whispered.

“So I started touching myself where I ached, thinking I was acting completely unladylike until Randa gave me a little speech on a lady’s needs,” she whispered as she turned towards him, changing so her face pressed into his neck instead, her hand moving in small circles against his stomach. “And suddenly, one day,” she breathed, “I found the right spot and peaked as I imagined you over me, like the night you came to my room.”

“Fucking hell… Yes, I was bloody charming that night wasn`t I?” he muttered, managing to wince inwardly, getting off on the image of her releasing while she`d thought about him in the Vale, and shake his head in disbelief at his Little Bird’s preferences all at the same time. 

She smiled against his skin. “I made you a bit more charming to fit in,” she grinned. “But somehow, you always managed to make me peak higher in my dreams, and it just got worse after Randa and Mya’s insistent education on the subject of men… you did so many things to me in my dreams, Sandor.”

Seven, bleeding hells, this would probably set him off into instant arousal for months to come. Trying to think up any reason at all for why the fuck they hadn`t played this game before, when he could have spilled his seed to her whispered confessions, was flaming beyond him.

“Did I slide my fingers inside you?” he whispered into her hair, tightening his arm around her as he felt her hand shift, and she moaned softly into his neck as she did what he`d said. “Did I ask you to use one hand on your nub and fuck yourself with the other?”

“Oh, Gods,” she whimpered, laying a long leg over his hip as she started pleasing herself with both her hands, breathing hard.

“Rock your hips,” he more or less groaned, encouraged by her low moan of pleasure against his neck. “Faster.”

She was fucking nearing already, her ragged breathing lifting soft moans of pleasure into the air as she moved her body up against him, her fingers buried in her cunt and her hand moving faster over her nub, towards his stomach, her leg tightening around his arse.

“Fuck, you`re so bloody amazing like this, Little Bird…” he murmured, kissing her hair before getting a grip and ignoring the jolt of pain up his shield-arm and down to his fingertips as he forced it to cooperate enough to caress one stiff nipple.

“Harder,” he whispered to her. “Sansa… _my_ Little Bird… you`re so fucking beautiful when you release. Go on, peak for me.”

“Oh, please… just… pull my hair,” she moaned, “and I`ll… I`ll…” He hurriedly grabbed her hair with his sword hand around her back and fisted it, pulling gently, his strange semi-arousal surging at her voicing a need for his hands in it, wanting her to peak high as the fucking heavens.

And she bloody well did. The motion of her hand turned erratic and then she just arched towards him as he pulled on her hair and pinched her nipple, moaning long and sweet as her hips bucked with her hands between her legs, her calf iron over his arse… _why the fuck didn`t I insist on a fucking candle?_ Her body convulsed against him as she whimpered in pleasure until she finally stopped moving her hips, lying shivering in the aftermath for a good while and waiting even longer before removing her hands from her cunt, burying her face in his neck again, obviously embarrassed.

“See? Wasn`t too bad, was it?” he murmured smilingly down in her tresses, feeling himself sinking into exhausted sleep now that the excitement was done.

“No, it… Gods, I needed that – thank you,” she answered, chuckling and folding her arms around him, hugging him gently to her.

“Thank yourself,” he murmured. “I`ll need to get a repetition of it later, though. Worked like fuck for me as well, I`m just in too severe a lack of blood to do anything else than store up pretty images in my head…”

She grinned into his neck, kissing him, and it felt like a faint whisper was swirling back and forth between them without either of them voicing it out loud. Just lying there feeling it, holding on to it. As they held each other when sleep finally claimed them.

But Sandor _was_ clearing up, getting better, stronger. He`d lost blood before and knew how it worked, the exhaustion, dizziness and nausea would pass, as would his headache. So he laboriously ate everything put in front of him, drank the fucking disgusting herb-mixture without complaint, and felt the twisted sensation of a body that had barely coped with being awake for two hours on end starting to scream for exercise. 

It all left him frustrated and bored, restless until he felt like he was going insane. He tried to hold it off by talking with Jaime, going through the fight together, playing stones and betting as they threw daggers at the wall until Sansa came down on them like a storm, upbraiding them both like hell. That, and trying to sleep away the pain of his side knitting itself up on less and less wine. 

Some surprises made Elder Brother’s strict order of staying in bed worth it, though. Like when Sansa turned up some days later with that little brown-eyed girl she kept using as a handmaid tagging along, both of them in aprons and carrying wash water, towels and cloth. After sending the girl away and telling the Lion that Brienne wanted a word – saddest fucking excuse in the world – making Jaime grin like a cat before a bowl of cream, she just unceremoniously started washing him, stopping surprised at Sandor’s grip around her wrist and incredulous stare.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, not wanting to even _think_ about his own grime in any setting including Sansa. She just looked at him, puzzled, with the cloth still in the hand he kept away from him.

“Washing you,” she answered, nearly making it a question.

“I can do that myself,” he grunted, somehow feeling embarrassed by how comfortably she approached his body like that. It was just too bleeding intimate in all the _wrong_ ways. 

Sudden understanding glinted in her eyes and she grinned wryly at him. “Really, Sandor… you made me… please myself… the other night, you can`t turn shy on me over this! Who do you _think_ washed you down the first days before Elder Brother arrived?” she replied, making Sandor’s insides knot.

“I don`t flaming want to know,” he muttered, though he already did. He _had_ felt suspiciously clean after all, it was just… _So bloody frustrating._ “And I`m not fucking _shy,_ fuck me, it`s not the same thing at all!”

They ended up with a compromise. Sansa grinned and told him she _had_ seen him naked before, repeating his jape on her from the lodge, before laughingly fleeing the room when he threw his pillow after her, his ribs protesting soundly. She came back a quarter of an hour later to help him with the rest, the warm cloth in her hands actually feeling bloody good. He`d never been tended to like this in his entire life. It felt strangely tender to get his back washed by someone who he was increasingly sure fucking loved him, and frighteningly good to be fussed over as well now that he was able to handle it, he grumblingly admitted to himself. 

When she was done she sighed, satisfied, and removed her apron before climbing into his bed as if it was completely normal behaviour, snuggling up against him like she used to do during the night.

“Little Bird, this might not be wise in broad daylight, if rumours start to float about… you know… about us…” he murmured into her hair, wanting nothing less than to see the back of her right now.

“Do you still think me a stupid little bird, Sandor?” she murmured back, tilting her head so her lips brushed his before kissing him softly. “Willow is stationed on post with her ladle downstairs and will cunningly redirect every person thinking of nosing around. And the rest of the orphans are at the class the riverlanders are putting on,” she smiled against his lips, “ _and_ I`m tending to nearly fifty children, Jaime and our two horses in addition to you, so don`t worry – nobody finds it strange that _my lady_ cares for her sworn shield herself.”

He kissed her back, and pressed her towards him, his insides whirling with fucking bliss at being allowed her like this in the middle of the day, and… _our_ horses?

“He made it then? Stranger?” he muttered into their kiss, a hazy memory about someone wanting to take his bloody brilliant horse down resurfacing in his mind… and Sansa’s voice in his ear, whispering that she… _loved me… I fucking knew it! Seven hells…_

“Yes, he did! I `ve been waiting for you to ask for him,” Sansa replied, breaking their kiss and smiling her sweet smile at him, as he struggled not to let his pathetic light-headedness show. “Elder Brother can`t say if he`ll be as good as he was before, but he`s alive and getting better. I even walked him in the yard today,” she said proudly, before laughingly adding how Stranger had tried to kick the head off of one of Jaime’s squires for trying to play tough with him. Sandor stared transfixed at his Little Bird, speaking so fondly of his unruly courser, defending him trying to kill someone… _She does the same thing with me, probably… because she flaming loves me._

He started kissing her again, feeling something inside him expand, and enough energy fill him to actually feel himself getting aroused. For real. Sansa stopped talking instantly and obviously felt his change of mood, as she kissed him heatedly back. But just when he began to feel himself harden properly, she broke the kiss and slipped out of his arms.

“Fuck, Sansa?” he grumbled after her, watching how she searched through her basket and walked back to him carrying salt and a twig with its head cut in strips to a brush.

“You need to scrub your teeth,” she said quietly, blushing faintly. “Has Elder Brother helped you at all? I forgot all about them these last few days… it`s important to take care of your teeth, my mother always said.” He stared at her until her cheeks turned crimson, but she looked increasingly stubborn as well. “Will you do it yourself or am I going to have to do it for you?” she asked with a hint of bite in her voice.

That had him out of his daze. Even though Elder Brother _had_ made him clean his mouth, he just raised himself up on his elbow and grabbed the twig before glaringly starting to scrub his blasted teeth, wondering how he suddenly was treated like a bloody brat when she`d kissed him heatedly a moment before, spitting irritably down into the wash basin she held out for him.

“You have good teeth, you know. Do you still have all of them?” Sansa asked him curiously, blushing even more, but watching him intently.

Sandor grimaced around the damned twig. “You`ve had your tongue inside my mouth enough times to know the answer to that, haven`t you?” he grumbled after spitting again.

“I haven`t… felt your teeth, Gods…” she answered, looking shocked and embarrassed at the same time, but grinned nonetheless. 

He gave her a flat stare. “Yes, I _do_ have all my teeth, incredibly enough. I`ve had several of them knocked loose from time to time, though.”

Sansa looked at him, enthralled. “Do they just… fasten again?” she asked curiously, feeling her own teeth with her tongue.

Sandor couldn`t help but chuckle around the twig, his irritation evaporating at her fucking sweet innocence. “Yes they do. Gregor even knocked _out_ both my front milk-teeth when I was four, but our maester shoved them back in and they stuck until I lost them naturally a couple of years later,” he said, throwing the twig down in the washbasin as well. “They turned blue, though.”

“By the Gods, you`ve had it,” she murmured, placing it away from the bed and climbing back in, folding her arms around him as he slid down on his pillow, her nails scraping up his neck, making goose-bumps prickle his skin down his arms as she leant over him. She smiled and looked deep into his eyes. “I`ll just count your teeth, then.”

Suddenly glad she`d forced him to scrub them, he kissed her back, her tongue parting his scarred lips and caressing his own, making his breath catch as he felt pure desire stream through him, his cock harden all over under the sheets, her hips grinding slightly towards him as she just fucking melted in his arms. Their kiss turning more and more needy as they both finally could enjoy each other again. 

Sandor stroked his hand up her waist and cupped her firm teat, making Sansa moan softly and whimper into his mouth, kissing him harder, and stroke gently down his side in return, dragging his covers out of the way. It set his blood on fucking fire, his cock twitching in pleasure as she caressed his hip and followed the ridge of his muscles down to his groin.

“Seven hells, just never fucking stop being so bloody eager,” he groaned into their kiss, completely out of breath as he bucked his hips in need, desperate for her hand on him… desperate to fuck her. _Oh, bloody hell, I need her cunt so much it`s like a bleeding curse by now…_

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep my face straight when I`ve been walking around wanting you for a week?” she whispered sweetly back, making his arousal roar inside him, his need pulsing as he bucked his hips to rub his cock against her thigh. She gasped into their kiss, and made him groan through gritted teeth in arousal as she smiled against his lips and caressed his balls playfully without touching his cock.

Sandor started fumbling to get her skirts up, forgetting himself and using his shield arm, making him grunt in pain until Sansa’s hand stroked lightly over his throbbing cock, her tongue licking the unburnt side of his mouth, lust and pleasure slamming so hard through him that he instantly moaned helplessly despite the need to be quiet. _We`re at an inn, for fuck’s sake…_

But a larger problem was that he couldn`t fucking breathe. Needing to break their deep, delicious kiss to get air down in his lungs, he cursed inwardly as dizziness spun the room around him, panting twice as much as he would`ve done any other time and _that_ was fucking saying something…

“Are you alright?” Sansa whispered breathlessly, caressing his stomach and chest when all he wanted was her hands on his cock again.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Just can`t kiss.”

She looked worriedly at him but started kissing his neck down to his collarbone nonetheless, and moaned softly when he thumbed her nipple through her dress, pushing her hand further down his stomach, the sensation of it folding around his aching cock vibrating through him. He groaned quietly into her hair as her hand stroked back the fold of skin around the head of him, her fingertips caressing the sensitive flesh underneath as she kissed him wetly under his ear, pleasure whirling through him as her hand tightened perfectly around his manhood. Fuck, she was getting good at this…

The need pulsed and built as she started stroking him rhythmically, making him even dizzier without him having any plans of giving in to it. Instead, he moaned softly as he turned towards her and started kissing _her_ neck in return, trying to drag up her skirts again, with his right arm this time.

“No,” she whispered. “I can wait, just let me please you, you need it more than I do right now.”

Bloody hells… Several protests were about to pass his lips until she started kissing him down his body where it wasn`t bandaged, pushing him gently onto his back and moving her body between his legs. He tried to be quiet but it was fucking hard as she neared his throbbing cock, her hands caressing his hips, her mouth soft and wet, _warm,_ teasing him, her tongue licking down and down until the head of him brushed against her silken cheek. And then she _finally_ slid her tongue up the stem of his manhood, licking around the head of his cock as she took him in his mouth. 

He fucking writhed in agonized pleasure and buried his hands in her hair, trying to be quiet as he did his bloody best to be careful but just _needing_ to fuck into her mouth. Her tongue licked the underside of his manhood, caressed the knot of flesh underneath his cock head, making his pleasure surge in hot jolts. He groaned in rapid exhales when she sent him even higher by dragging his good leg in between her own, rubbing herself against him and moaning with his cock deep in her mouth, his release shimmering fucking moments away.

And then some arse flaming knocked on the door. 

Sansa was off him in a flash, throwing the covers over him and tying on her apron faster than he would have believed possible, calling ‘come in’ completely normally as she started wringing out cloths as the door opened to reveal… Willow, was it?

“M’lady? Messengers and armed men have arrived, m’lady, thought you ought to know at once,” the girl said in a clear voice, flicking a glance at Sandor as she curtsied like a drunk tavern-wench.

Trying not to breathe like a blown horse, and holding his still wet, rock-hard cock down under the covers, he watched Sansa smile genuinely at the girl. “Thank you, Willow,” she replied warmly. “Would you please help me down with this?” 

As the girl was busy pouring the water from the washbasin into a bucket, Sansa smiled at him as her eyes roamed over his shoulders and arms – and stuck a clean, dry cloth in under his covers. Blushing at his rueful grin, she turned and followed Willow out the door, leaving him to finish her work for himself.

His own hand wasn`t half as good as hers, and didn`t bear comparison to her mouth at all. But he could easily envision her lips still around him, the noises she made when she neared her peak, imagining her wet cunt, remembering how tight she`d been around the head of him at the lodge. And found his long needed release groaning into his pillow, her pretty whispers from the other night singing in his ears, imagining his cock sliding wetly in and out of her warm cunt as he pulsed in pleasure, stubbornly ignoring how his injuries protested like mad.

It completely drained him, though, and he couldn`t flaming breathe for too long a time afterwards. But it got him thinking … they would bloody well end up fucking any day now, if her eagerness and fucking amazing _want_ for him was anything to go by… Wanting him to take her maidenhead. His Little Bird. She deserved more than just having him grunting on top of her, too dizzy, out of breath and too fucking weak to coordinate anything. _Can I even take her that way?_ His shield-arm couldn`t carry the weight of her fucking skirts, apparently, let alone a quarter of _his_ weight, and his leg… Bloody hells…

But he could stand, for a while at least – and walk with a limp. So another thing that came to mind, after he`d spent some time imaging fucking Sansa up against the bedroom wall, was that he was bloody well sick and tired of staying in bed. Elder Brother had estimated that his side would need six fucking weeks to heal completely. Bugger him if he`d be out of training for that long. 

It had already been twelve days since holding the road. Ten days since Elder Brother’s arrival. Five days for messengers and ravens to go out, and five to get the promised reinforcements to arrive. His head was clear and his headache gone, his stitches were being removed tomorrow, except on his shield-arm, which Elder Brother was stretching and giving him fucking exercises for. 

All that stood between being by Sansa’s side, doing his fucking duty instead of going insane in bed, was pain and dizzy exhaustion from lack of blood. And Elder Brother. _Fuck._ But with Petyr Baelish on the run and the Brotherhood without Balls right around the corner he couldn`t be expected to lie here rotting forever. If they were really unlucky, Littlefinger might have bought the bastards and the undead lady Catelyn, so that they would turn on Sansa as the Gold-cloaks had with Ned Stark. 

Wait… did Sansa bloody know about that?


	30. The sweetest gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note:  
> Here you go, finally! The promised GRAND 20.000 words CH 30! 
> 
> Internet went down yesterday, so I`m so sorry for not posting before deadline. But, to your information, I`m posting it now in the very first loophole of my workday *grins fondly at you all*
> 
> This is the result of two weeks of hard work in any moment possible, Moony’s ever enthusiastic waving of pompoms and several rounds back and forth in beta. I`ve declared war on this chapter several times, nearly had a nervous breakdown at the whole thing and am now feeling drunk with relief of FINALLY being able to post.
> 
> So please you faithful readers out there, I`m shamelessly asking you to pet my ego (a living joke right now) and give me your thoughts and feedback. As Moony said so brilliantly a while back: this is the only payment I`ll ever receive…(in addition to a divorce if I keep spending so much time working my arse off in front of the pc), so… please cheer me on, I really, really need it right now <3
> 
> About that: This chapter just got dedicated to Krissy - for her incredibly inspiring support that makes me throw myself into writing mode with a grin on my face! THANK YOU!!! <3 <3 <3

The next time that stick of a boy arrived to ask Sandor if he wanted anything, he told the little bugger that he needed to speak to Elder Brother fast as fuck. Alban… no, Alvyn… or what the hell, disappeared like fog in the sun but impressively enough returned dragging Elder Brother into the room in no time at all.

“Fuck, that was fast, boy,” Sandor rasped at him, having thought he would bore himself to death in the meantime as the Lion still hadn`t come back. “Maybe you`ll turn out useful in spite of those sticks you`ve got for legs…” he said, making the lad stutter that Elder Brother apparently had been on his way to tend to his injuries anyway, but looking like Sandor had given him a full set of plate and mail for his service. Strange little brat…

Elder Brother smiled at him, his robe fucking spotless and a mild expression on his face despite his direct gaze, looking dignified as hell. Sandor watched him arrange all his equipment on the bedside and onto the bed itself, stick-boy pouring warm water into a basin for him before he simply evaporated again. Leaving them alone for the first time.

“How do you feel?” Elder Brother asked, something mirthful in his eyes, and honest interest in his voice.

“Well… a hell of a lot better than I was,” Sandor muttered, as his wounds were down to ordinary, healing pain. Except his side, which was still bloody agony, but possible to ignore with a combination of stubborn will and the small amount of strongwine still allowed him. Not that he would tell Elder Brother the latter, though… he wanted _out_ of this bed. 

“Merely better? I would have thought you would be returned to near full health after having been tended to by Lady Stark for… over an hour?” the bastard said carefully, managing to look holy as fuck and bursting with the strain of not laughing at Sandor at the same time. 

Sandor looked slightly sideways at the man. He couldn`t help but wonder for the hundredth time why Elder Brother seemed completely devoid of the fear and loathing that had always dogged Sandor’s steps. No matter what the fuck Sandor did or said to him… and threatening to kill him that day might not have been _completely_ necessary now he came to think of it…

“So much for Willow and her fucking ladle…” he grumbled back, making Elder Brother snort as he removed the bandage around his arm, his lips twitching as if he wanted to grin widely down at what he was doing. Sandor felt how his own mouth started twitching into a grin as well, until they both sat there grinning like idiots side by side. 

“I believe myself one of the initiated, Sandor, do not worry. You have my compliments… I can certainly understand why you fell in love with her,” Elder Brother said, as he flicked Sandor a glance. 

Sandor snorted hard at him, grimacing at feeling so fucking exposed. 

Elder Brother just gave him the flattest look he`d ever received in return. “Sandor,” he started in mild reproach. “When you`re around the few of us who know, I really think she deserves more than a grimace… Does it still scare you so? Admitting you`re in love with her?” 

“What the fuck do you want me to say? That I bloody well tripped over my own feet and smashed in my head over her?” Sandor grumbled in return, feeling too fucking vulnerable and struggling hard not to roar in spinal reflex again.

“No, my friend. Not _quite_ that. You are too good at using insults and foul language to distance yourself from anything that can damage your shield to the world. I would have _wanted,_ Sandor, for you to understand that lowering your guard for such a precious thing is not something that makes you weak,” Elder Brother said calmly, looking levelly at him.

“I already _have_ lowered my fucking guard,” Sandor muttered. “I`m bloody well turning soft here…” 

The robed man beside him smiled gently down at the bandage he was rolling and waited until Sandor could fucking look him in the eye once more. “I`m glad for you, Sandor,” he replied quietly, “and proud of you as well.” Elder Brother’s clear blue eyes met Sandor’s with his usual directness, letting his words sink in, and then –before he felt too cornered about the whole damned thing – deftly picked up the one edged, hooked little knife he used to remove stitches and got to work. Seven hells… _proud_ of him? _For what?_ Oh, hell… this was probably one of those things the bastard said to make him think things through, again… making him brood his head off… fucking arse…

“The children have already started telling tales about Lady Sansa, did you know?” Elder Brother murmured after a while, as he removed Sansa’s pretty little stitches from Sandor’s sword-arm, making him itch like fuck and leaving new pink scars in stripes over the old ones. _Thank the Gods she seems to like scars…_ “She`s _their_ lady now, you see, and stories about her grace and beauty pass amongst them on equal footing with her bravery, strength and care for her small gathering of people.”

“Observant brats… Well, bugger me if she isn`t the fucking perfect highborn lady, especially when she wants to be…” Sandor replied, watching as Elder Brother deftly removed enough thread to bloody well catch a dinner for you by a river like this. “But with the guts of four men,” he added, trying not to sound like a lovesick fool too proud of his woman for his own good, _especially_ not after the earlier conversation.

Elder Brother heard it anyway, of course, and smiled at him again, annoying Sandor immensely. “So it seems to me, as well. She`s even supposed to have disarmed a man when he tried to remove her from her wounded knights after the… _Battle_ of the River road,” the man added, mirth thick in his voice again.

Sandor barked a laugh in pure fucking disbelief. “What in the seven hells did you just call it? Battle of _what?_ And has nobody told them that I`m no bleeding ser?” he asked, knowing how rumours gathered momentum, but bloody hell…

“I believe your lady has tried to tell them several times, but that just doesn`t fit in with their story, you see. You and Ser Jaime are heroes, after all…”

“ _I`m_ a bloody hero? Here? Where the Hound has raped and eaten the teats of twelve-year-olds after ravaging and burning down every second village?” How fucking short of memory was it possible to be?

“Ah yes… _Here,_ at this inn at least, they know there have been several hounds, as they`ve had the doubtful honour of watching no less than three pass by. For them, you`re the _real_ Hound, and for now, also the hero of their story,” the man said calmly, looking at him with his piercing blue gaze.

“The Hound`s supposed to be dead,” Sandor replied carefully, suddenly feeling on thin ice, sensing a trap.

“So he is. But you`re not, which is confusing to them,” Elder Brother said, sounding almost absentminded as the last stitch was removed. As absentminded as an old hunting heron, bugger him if it wasn`t.

“It`s fucking confusing me as well,” Sandor muttered annoyed, throwing caution to the wind. “I was fine with it on the Quiet Isle because I was so bloody low anyway and got flaming nauseous just thinking about my life… fucking hell… couldn`t bloody live with myself at all, now could I? Not even when riding for the Vale, for that matter. Not truly.”

“You needed to close that part of your life to be able to move on, Sandor. That`s why the Hound needed to die,” Elder Brother replied as he washed over the new puple scarring of the larger wound.

“I know that, I`m not a fucking idiot,” Sandor growled, annoyed. “It`s just… Sansa only knew me as the Hound… and I thought she would hate the shit out of me. But she doesn`t. I don`t know if she`s just made a flaming story out of it, she used to have her head in the clouds, after all. But I can tell you, when I held that road with the Lion, fighting for her safety, protecting _her_ … the terror on those bastards’ faces as they recognised me…” He looked Elder Brother directly in the eye. “I was the Hound with every bloody fibre of my being… and you can make of that what you fucking want.” 

Elder Brother watched him quietly in return, the recognition in his eyes telling that he knew exactly how it felt to roar as you slaughtered your enemies, the warrior inside him suppressed but not forgotten. “No, you`re _definitely_ not an idiot, and Lady Stark definitely does not hate you,” Elder Brother said at last. “But can you say her name?” 

_What the fuck are you playing at?_ “Sansa.” _Little Bird._

“Yes. _That_ is a name. Now, what is ‘the Hound’?” Elder Brother asked, beginning on his leg, making Sandor stare at him. 

Seeing beyond the now of fighting, finding nothing but flickering images of red rage, dripping contempt and rock-hard bitterness, sealing him off from feeling anything at all as he ripped down his own blocks to build new walls. Using the rage that had always simmered just below the surface, echoing with so many disappointments, so much frustration, vibrating with the built-in feeling of fucking necessary paranoia, the bloody sad shame of never being able to protect the ones he`d actually cared about. Hunted by the image of his mother’s bare feet swinging _beside_ the seat of the chair as the sun kissed the floor, the blood-trail from the corpse of his sister’s small mount… The strangled and lonely regret of standing there, left alone, trying to swallow the guilt of having screamed that he hated his broken mother the evening before she`d had enough. 

It had been easy as fuck to follow the Lannisters’ orders compared to that. Their rules and expectations felt fucking wonderful, having something bloody consistent to lean on in his life. Finding a place like that mattered far more than what had been asked in return, so he`d bloody well obeyed their orders because he`d wanted to, their praise for his skills and ferocity something he`d never experienced before. So he`d proven himself to the only ones who were worth it and at the same time ended up too feared, too hard, too high in the Lannister household to ever be broken again. Being the Lannister dog and everyone else’s worst nightmare. And being fucking fine with it.

And there he`d existed, for so many years, drowning his fucking annoying self loathing and all his nauseous memories in wine, feeding the burning rage that kept justifying his actions until he`d really thought he`d made himself into hardened steel. _Strong arms and sharp steel…_ His willingness to unquestioningly follow orders made him a fucking valuable weapon – and gave him leave to do whatever the fuck he wanted in all other areas. His loyalty to the Lannisters and their expectations of him had been unwavering until a little northern bird had fluttered into his life, until it had started to matter that he was kicked as much as fed, until he`d been kicked one too many times. 

Sansa had pecked so many small holes in his armour, being so utterly stuck in her songs, calling him awful, hateful… which had been nice enough as she hadn`t said such things to anyone else, holding her courtesy up like a shield instead, making her honesty at the time a fucking compliment. But it`d still made him want to roar at her. Because why the hell should the bastards on the receiving end of his awful, hateful violence deserve a mercy he himself had never been given? The only reason he was still alive was _because_ his strong arms were the ones wielding that sharp steel. 

The knowledge that he was one of the bloody best at his trade had given his life meaning, after all, the fear and respect that followed his reputation and status confirming that he`d achieved what he`d bloody well wanted all along. But standing there, telling himself that he was doing his best, that all the protection he could give her was the harsh truth of how the world worked, try to teach her to protect _herself..._ that all _he_ could do was watch them beat her, the reasoning ringing so false in his own head that it fucking hurt… had unravelled all he`d worked so hard to build up.

The Hound had already lost all there was to lose before her song … but for Sandor to completely lose his direction in life, _meaning_ in life, as her tremulous voice begged the Mother for him to know a better day, had been a hundred times worse.

He was dimly aware that Elder Brother was studying him and lifted his head to meet his gaze, completely at a loss for what to say, feeling irritation spike hot and hard through him at needing to think on this again and again, like a fucking _blister_ in his mind from the constant friction of his thoughts. The burnt side of his mouth started to twitch madly at the thought of being flaming backed up against the wall like this when the bastard _knew_ what he`d put into motion.

“Don`t answer yet,” the robed man in front of him said quietly. “Wait until you can say it without getting angry. It is not for me to decide, but I think it would be wise to let the Hound rest in his grave until he`s _nothing_ but a name.”

Right. And how in the seven bleeding hells was that going to arrange itself?

Sandor tried hard to calm down instead of stepping into the obvious trap of blind rage, of shouting threats and abuse at a man who wouldn`t care two shits either way unless he killed him. And that was no fucking solution, was it? Bloody hell, imagine standing over _that_ bleeding corpse… 

He managed to talk himself out of bed, at least, while Elder Brother removed the rest of the stitches down his legs and across his ribs. Tomorrow. But only if he fucking promised to be a good dog and keep bandaging his leg and arm for support for a little while longer. 

Then Elder Brother whipped him through the daily exercises for his blasted shield-arm, making him stretch and bend and lift a jar of fucking dried peas at different angles. It was flaming painful even if he denied it heatedly, making Elder Brother’s eyes narrow before he poured out a long admonition about not using it too much too early, and not, under _any_ circumstances, to put weight on it yet. And then he tried to stuff a fucking _sling_ in his face. Bugger him… 

After stopping himself from asking how the hell he was supposed to fuck Lady Stark properly with his arm in a sling, silently vowing to burn it the minute Elder Brother and his fucking dignity was out the door, he was forced to pick up what felt like hundreds of the dried peas poured out into a cloth and put them into the jar again. One at a time, using his thumb and alternating fingers to grab them for flaming ages. Enough to drive a man to bloody jump headfirst out of the window out of boredom and frustration.

Sansa stumbled into his bed late that night, switching rooms with Jaime again, murmuring something about how good his arms felt around her after so many hours with her council of riverlanders, hearing the messengers out and greeting the newcomers. Then she told him of how she`d cornered Lady Stoneheart’s smith in the stable when checking their horses, as well.

“I took a leaf out of your book and nailed him to the wall with my gaze, asked him why he hadn`t given me up yet to the Brotherhood without Banners. And… Sandor, he`s really very nice when he`s not being sullen. I think he really wanted to believe in Dondarrion’s ideas of a brotherhood of true knights, justice and protecting the people…”

“Fuck me, I think I remember the sod!” Sandor exclaimed, overwhelming memories of that desperate fight with Dondarrion and his arm fucking _burning,_ shrinking in favour of the sight of those self-righteous cocks denying him his gold. And himself, listening from the darkness, hearing a black-haired apprentice swearing to smith for them. “He can bugger himself up the arse with a pike he`s forged himself and go to hell with the rest of them, _fucking_ bastards!”

“Sandor…” Sansa said reproachfully. “You can`t go around hating every person who wants to believe that goodness and justice exist in the world… you did once, too.” 

She kissed him softly, her arms around him fucking comforting in a strange way, making it possible to swallow down the bloody _shame_ of having broken down like a brat that day in the hollow hill, wailing for help when his flesh had seared, the flames licking higher for every panicky movement. If that sod _ever_ opened his mouth about it…

“Why the hell do you say that?” he grumbled at her between kisses, wondering how much beating his brain could receive in one day without turning to mush.

“Because you refused knighthood, of course, after Gregor was anointed,” she murmured against his lips. “And don`t start shouting, I`m too tired for your growls right now.” 

“I`m _kissing_ you, woman, not growling at you…” he muttered as he swallowed several hard replies, making her chuckle softy.

“The point I was trying to make at the start of this conversation was that he won`t give me up because Lady Stoneheart has twisted the whole code of honour out of its original context, or so Gendry says… not in those words of course. _And_ he`s awfully interested in my sister. It doesn`t mean we`re safe, but...”

“My fucking confinement is over tomorrow,” Sandor rasped in a low voice. “With the reinforcements from the riverlords we should be more than able to hold an inn like this against a band of fucking swineherds in rags, a dead lady and a pink priest. _And_ they know I have it in for them.”

“You`re not allowed to kill Gendry, though, he might be Mya’s brother, and after all she`s been through on my behalf she deserves more than you making crow-food of her kin. He`s from King’s Landing, has never known his father and actually looks like a broader version of Lord Renly. But, as we all know that _that_ Baratheon didn`t breed, his virile brother might well be the sire,” she yawned and snuggled closer to him. “And Brienne agrees.”

“Bloody hell…” Sandor grumbled, feeling an itching need to wring the bastard’s neck on the basis of his description alone. He sounded just the type to bathe in willing wenches… His own memory of the lad was somewhat hazy, as he`d focused all his attention on memorizing the faces of the arses who`d taken his gold.

“Sandor… I need you to heal quickly,” she whispered tiredly into his mouth as she kissed him one last time before snuggling closer to him. “The Brotherhood is one thing, but the riverlands are _heaving._ They`re fighting in small bands, falling on the Lannisters from all angles and disappearing again before the Lions manage to react – it`s working for now, but it`s desperate. They`re calling for me. I need to reach Riverrun and start the political work to secure the area. And… I just… need you.”

So he held her and needed her too, slept next to her through the night and was awakened by Willow’s usual knock on the door and fucking unstoppable bright smile early next morning. Sandor had nearly jumped out of his skin the first time he`d seen her walk in on them with her tray and her good mood, but Sansa had in some bloody strange way managed to win the girl’s loyalty – and tied her to her skirts as a fully functioning maid. Now it felt fucking natural to wake up with his arms around his Little Bird, while Willow fussed around with shutters and lighting candles in the darkness before dawn. 

Sansa stretched up against him and smiled back at the girl, thanking her for bringing up food for Sandor to break his fast, while Sandor felt how morning stiffness turned to so much more as her skin slid against him like that. It didn`t help one whit that she fucking _knew_ it and pressed her arse nonchalantly against his hardened cock before getting out of bed, making him bite back a groan of pleasure. Bugger him, he _needed_ her… 

Sansa came back with Jaime and Brienne half an hour later, and settled down on the beds to go through what news the messengers had brought from the Vale and Westeros in general.

Daenerys Targaryen’s fleet was readying itself for an attack on King’s Landing, and Aegon Targaryen’s forces were now in control of the Baratheon lands completely, heading for King’s Landing from the other side. The big question being if they cooperated or not… Bronze Yohn was marching for the riverlands with supplies and the only battle-hungry army left in Westeros, asking Sansa to raise her standards both for rallying the forces but also to break the Lannisters’ spirit when pressed between two mighty foes. 

The Blackfish had fucking vanished for all the news of him, and Littlefinger was being searched for down every road and in every port. The High Septon in King’s Landing had even agreed to Elder Brother’s request to arrest Petyr Baelish on suspicion of the murder of Robert Arryn and the abduction of Myranda Royce if he showed up by ship before all hell broke loose. But Sandor silently thought that bloody futile… Baelish would never leave enough traces to be tied to anything, and Sansa mirrored his thoughts by murmuring something about Petyr keeping his hands clean. 

“I`m increasingly sure he`s taken Randa as a warning. You see her father, Lord Nestor Royce, had been High Steward of the Vale for fourteen years prior to Jon Arryn’s death, virtually ruling the Vale,” Sansa started, her brows drawn down in both cold fury at Littlefinger’s actions and worry for her friend. “Petyr granted him permanent lordship over the Gates of the Moon after the War of the Five Kings, signing it as Lord Protector and buying Nestor’s loyalty up against the Lords Declarant. But then, Lord Royce turned on him, and now his daughter is gone.”

Jaime snorted. “I`m so glad I always made my inadequate skills at political manoeuvres quite clear from the beginning. Everyone knew my only goals were the thrill of the fight and avoiding any responsibility at all except guarding the queen… and I already had gold and status. If not, I would have been tangled in so many webs I`d have been strangled several times by now.”

“Jaime, guarding the queen and fucking her are two different things,” Sandor rasped, looking sideways at the Lion.

Jaime just grinned wryly in return. “Knew you`d fall for that! I can return the favour by informing you that sworn shields are _not_ supposed to guard their ladies with their arms around them every fucking night either,” he replied, looking cocky as hell until Brienne swatted his shoulder.

“ _You two,_ ” Sansa broke in sternly, for some reason not including Brienne. “This is important. I need you to wrap your heads around what I`m saying instead of just thinking with what you have between your legs,” she bit off, making both Jaime and himself straighten like fucking squires before the master of arms, and Brienne blush like a sunset.

“He is sending a _message,_ ” Sansa continued when she had their attention. “Of what will happen to the men and women he bought in the Vale if they turn their cloaks. Mya was tortured for her low birth and Randa disappeared for her higher one. He will probably try to regain his seat through one of the Targaryens and we need to try to map out his traps before his web strangles _me_ and you and half the riverlands with us.”

“Who else do you know who was on his payroll, then?” Sandor asked. “If he had Bronze Yohn as well, we`re in deep shit.”

“No, Petyr was always vary of him from the very beginning,” she said, and quickly explained how Petyr had used Ser Lyn Corbray to infiltrate the Lords Declarant, and how the man had bared steel to make an argument of the lords’ honour to prevent Bronze Yohn from fostering Robin Arryn at Runestone. 

“Both Lyn and his lord father were in Littlefinger’s pocket from the start, by the promise of a lucrative wedding to a merchant’s daughter, gold and some small boys’ miseries. Lyn will be a most valuable witness if we ever get that far,” she finished.

“So he had Nestor Royce, both the Corbrays and who else?” Sandor pushed, wondering how many men Littlefinger had owned in addition to Janos Slynt in King’s Landing, and starting to add that to the information he knew himself from his years amongst the mighty. He suddenly remembered Cersei laughing contemptuously at how the honourable Ned Stark’s daughter had turned traitor without even realizing it. And fucking hell, that death-count of hers… it couldn`t be that she believed herself the reason for the war, could it? Sandor silently concluded that bringing up Petyr Bealish’s part in setting it all up could wait until they were alone.

Sansa looked puzzled at him, even though he was sure his face was blank, but answered him readily enough. “He bought Lord Belmore’s allegiance straight away, and arranged the wedding between Lord Corbray and the merchant’s daughter from Gulltown,” she said, her words clear and precise. “Petyr was confident he would win over Lord Templeton as well, so we have to assume that he did, and he came home from that wedding smug as a fox after having bought House Waynwood’s debt, because… you know, with Cersei making a fool of herself with the Iron Bank of Braavos, it started calling in its debts throughout the kingdoms. Perfect for a man like Petyr. It might even been part of why he left his station as Master of Coin as well – he always reckoned she would self-destruct.”

Jaime laughed in between embarrassment and exasperation and rubbed his face. “Cersei… so much for being the son the mighty Tywin always wanted… Right. So, by then Petyr had Nestor Royce, the Corbrays, Lord Belmore and Lady Waynwood that we know of…” he counted.

“Cutting the defiance of the Lords Declarant in half, the bastard,” Sandor added.

“Yes, I thought Anya Waynwood was secure under Bronze Yohn, but she didn`t manage to control Harry, after all… In addition, of the ones I know of, he had Ser Edmund Waxley’s loyalty and sons of both Lord Grafton and Lord Lynderly as wards,” Sansa replied. “So _if_ he returns, he might have quite powerful allies either by will or by fear.”

“Better make sure he doesn`t, then,” Sandor rasped.

“No, because with Bronze Yohn gone to fight a war only the mighty really want, Harold Hardyng still floating between life and death after being knifed in his stomach, and with Sweetrobin dead…” She stopped and furrowed her brow. “Actually, now that we speak of it… it was after the Lords Declarant had laid siege on the Eyrie and were coming up the mountain that Petyr first told Maester Colemon to give Robert sweetsleep. So Sweetrobin could greet them, he said… and after that the dose just increased… until he slept all the time. And… died.” 

Sansa sat looking unseeingly at her hands for a moment. “Petyr must have been planning Robert Arryn’s death all that time, I assumed he was safe because of the power structure, but… Sweetrobin might not have been as sick as we thought, it might have been his body’s need for more sweetsleep that made him shake as well as his fits… Elder Brother told me, and… I just left my cousin to die,” she added in a half-whisper.

Jaime exchanged a glance with Sandor before staring hard at the floorboards, the Lion’s own black conscience obviously giving him enough compassion for Sansa to equal four men, though without being able to voice it. Sandor, on the other hand, was having the bloody awkward feeling that if Sansa had received information about bodily reactions to addiction from Elder Brother, he himself had sure as fuck been part of the theme. 

Brienne looked uncomfortable enough to sink through the floor, but just as Sandor kicked himself into motion and was about reach for Sansa, Brienne patted her back clumsily, making his Little Bird shake herself out of her dark thoughts and turn back to the matter at hand, something steely having entered her manner.

“So. Petyr has left the Vale without a proper heir, making it ripe for the plucking if Littlefinger can convince the Targaryens of his usefulness. Something he`ll do within hours after their arrival if he gets the chance,” Sansa said bitterly. “I know he got Grand Maester Pycelle to send him some tapestries from King’s Landing when he heard that Bronze Yohn was coming. I`d wager those are with him now, displaying all the Targaryen grandeur a king or queen could wish for, a welcome gift to catch their interest. He always had several safety-nets ready if one plan failed, after all. And I think we all agree that it`s only a matter of time before we have a Targaryen on the Iron Throne, with live dragons and all...”

Sandor’s gut clenched, despite the impassive expression he kept on his face. Seven bloody hells, how they could hope to fight dragons if it came to that was just a plain fucking petrifying thought. One thing at a time, though.

“Which brings us to the Lannisters,” he said gruffly, sending Jaime a sidelong glance. “Who apparently are divided in three. One part sits in King’s Landing without leadership, choked to their fucking necks in Tyrells and trying to find their balls before they hear leathery wings flapping down on them. The second part is being harried through the riverlands, wondering what the fuck got into their beaten foes. And the third part tries to make preparations to defend Casterly Rock, if I know anything about them.”

Jaime took a deep breath and said he needed maps and updated information about the position of the Lannister forces in the riverlands so he could add what he knew of the plans and strategies laid down when he was still commander. He added that the threat from the dragons would have fucked up most of it, but he`d do whatever was required of him. His obvious distaste for turning traitor like this was nearly reassuring in a bloody strange way. The Kingslayer was apparently finding his tattered honour instead of just loyalty to his house after all.

All in all they agreed that they would sit down with Sansa’s bannermen two days hence, when the more detailed maps had arrived from the Quiet Isle, so they could plan further action properly, and find a solution to how Sansa would take on her undead mother as well. Sandor had a fucking bad feeling about that. Bloody Brotherhood flagging their lack of Balls as Banners, bugger him if that pack hadn`t gone even more rabid than they`d been the last time he had anything to do with them. 

Sansa closed their little meeting by informing them that they would all attend supper in the common room tonight, to greet the newcomers and show the riverlanders some evidence of her invincible sworn shields.

“I have such a small force around me that you three will just have to put up with being made into heroic titans,” she grinned, but there was something serious in her gaze that spoke volumes.

“Me as well?” Brienne replied, sounding nearly appalled. “But, I didn`t even participate in the fight!”

“Sweetheart, you`ll always be my little pretty, so don`t worry about the titan reference,” Jaime shot in with a wide grin on his face. “And just wipe off that scowl, I`m still injured, you can`t hit me!”

“I can, though,” Sandor added thoughtfully. “If she`s your _little_ pretty, _I_ might as well get a seizure of chivalry and decide I need to defend her honour,” he continued wryly, making Brienne struggle between grinning widely and looking worried. “As soon as I`m out of bed at least.”

“Oh, Morther have mercy!” Sansa exclaimed in mirthful exasperation. “Give me notice if you need broomstick horses to duel on, then, as long as you`re done before supper.” But then her tone turned serious. “I`m trusting you to behave tonight, all of you. I really need them to see that I have my Lannister shields under control, knowing their place. Understood?” 

“Lady Stark,” Jaime replied with a smile, bowing from his bed, managing to seem the bloody perfect knight until he turned towards Brienne and put on his most innocent expression – which turned out to be looking like a fucking cat sitting in a pile of feathers, plucking it’s teeth. 

Sansa gave in and laughed at him, and Brienne muttered something about a grumpy drafthorse and a three-legged garron without any sense of direction _at all._ For some insane reason it made both the women completely break down, just as the sound of a few orphans scrambling through the hallway outside on their way to their lessons, turned to approximately five hundred. _Seven hells…_

Brienne grabbed the Lion and hauled him out the door, telling him to come see her beat his squires in the yard while Clegane got dressed. Making Sandor ponder over the fact that it started feeling fucking strange that she was the only one of them still referring to him by his house… But it was soon forgotten in the flaming wonderful feeling of getting out of the fucking cell he`d been in for two weeks. 

Sansa helped him dress, guiding his breeches on over his stiff leg with that hungry gleam back in her eyes, making his lust for her surge even though dressing was more than a little painful. Getting onto his feet, she pulled them up over his arse and continued to stroke up over his body as he laced himself up.

“Gods, you`re tall,” she murmured at him, tilting her head as she looked into his eyes, her hands trailing up the muscles of his back.

“Have you only just noticed?” he replied, grinning wryly down at her.

She grinned right back, fucking admiring him. “You`ve been in a bed for so long, and in such bad shape, that I need to get used to how large you are all over again now.” 

“And how does that work for you?” he murmured hoarsely, hardening as he saw her lips part with his tunic forgotten in her hand. 

“Very well, ser,” she replied in a low voice, drinking him in with her eyes as he did the same with her. 

“Is that meant to provoke me?” he growled softly as he lowered his head, breathing a bit too fast over her jaw line, kissing the shell of her ear. The way she sighed and slid her thumbs under the lining of his breeches, dragging him towards her, was too fucking tempting by half, despite all the noise from the hall. 

“Yes, my lord,” she breathed back, turning her head to kiss the unburnt side of his mouth, making his cock press against the laces he`d just done up and a desperate sound escape his lips. 

“I want you so fucking much,” he whispered, kissing her hungrily and pressing his rock hard manhood up against her stomach . “I want to push myself inside you and claim your pretty little maidenhead more than _anything._ ” 

She kissed him back, whimpering nearly inaudibly into his mouth, her hands wandering farther up his body to cup his mismatched cheeks as his own hands slid up from her waist, his fingers caressing the underside of her fucking amazing firm young teats, having them both panting in need.

“Please do. I _want_ you to… claim me,” she moaned softly, pushing him backwards so that he sat down on the edge of the bed again and climbed carefully into his lap, bloody well lifting her skirts out of the way when she straddled him, as she had an obvious liking for. 

“Now?” he whispered breathlessly, so fucking aroused that the ruckus from the hall seemed an insignificant obstacle. Feeling how her hands slid from his jaw, down his neck and squeezing his shoulders, making him tense his muscles under her hands just to see where it got him and being rewarded with a strangled moan against his lips. 

“We can`t,” she gasped, her hips starting to roll over him in contradiction to her words, making pure desire rain through him. “If we don`t show up in the yard, people will soon start to wonder,” she added in clear frustration.

He chuckled at her. “We _should_ wait until tonight then,” he more or less groaned, pleasure starting to spiral into hot points as she stroked his cock with her cunt in rapid, heated movements, her supple body in his arms so fucking _delicious._

“Yes, we should,” she whimpered back, folding her long legs around him and rocking her hips until he thought he would just die of the need pulsing inside him, ignoring his blasted side and the stabbing pain when he tightened the muscles in his arm.

“Oh, seven hells,” he gasped raggedly, breaking their kiss to press her hard towards him with his sword arm, burying his face in her hair and feeling how she clung to him in return, her mouth trailing wet kisses down his neck.

“It… Gods… it feels so good!” she whispered, as out of breath as he was. 

“Believe me, I know,” he whispered hoarsely back as someone started shouting up the stairs and his pleasure tilted dangerously into real stimulation. He grabbed her around her hips and ground her up and down his shaft, trying desperately to be quiet and biting gently down on her neck.

“Sandor… I… Oh, _don`t_ stop,” Sansa gasped raggedly in his ear, her quiet sounds of pleasure turning to silent moans as his hands found her hair, pulling her head backwards so he could see her face. 

And bugger him if she didn`t just fucking release, clinging to him as she strangled her moans against his lips, her erratic movements having him a hair from fucking peaking himself. Seven hells she had him in a flaming knot for her, arousal and lust raging like a fucking hot storm inside him as he held her tight, caressing her breasts, trying hard not to be dragged along with her. Wanting more. 

Sandor managed to wait until the second she caught her breath. But then he simply lost it, hurriedly lifting her off him one-armed and pushing her unceremoniously down between his legs. 

She smiled fucking sweetly at him as he more or less ripped open his breeches, exhaling raggedly as she helped free his aching cock, fluid leaking from the tip of him. He stroked strands of hair away from her face and groaned between gritted teeth as she folded her hands around the top of his manhood, sliding back the fold of skin as she licked off his moisture, her lips kissing the head of him wetly, her tongue sliding eagerly around him before she took him in her mouth. 

He was at the fucking brink already, pleasure streaming through him like a river when she stroked him tightly as he thrust into her warm, wet mouth, trying desperately to keep quiet as her tongue caressed him, licking and sucking him until he couldn`t hold back anymore and entwined his hands in her silky hair, pushing her deeper down on him. 

The release took hold of him like a punch, his strangled groans sounding all too loud in his own ears as he watched the fucking incredible sight of his pulsing cock deep in between her lush lips, her tongue licking him hot and fast. The whole thing heightened by the way she met his gaze as he writhed in pleasure, gasping desperately for breath when wave after wave of bliss crashed through him, his seed spilling into her mouth. 

“Fuck, I bloody well needed that,” he gasped, laughing ruefully at his slightly bawdier repetition of her earlier words. Ignoring how dizzy he was, how hard his side burned, and watching in fascination as Sansa swallowed his seed as if it was a mouthful of some fucking expensive summer wine, pleasure resonating inside him as he tucked himself into his breeches again, doing up his laces. “But I`m coming off bloody cheap these days… want me to… do something in return?” he muttered belatedly, feeling fucking stupid.

“No, thank you,” she answered sweetly from sitting on her knees between his legs, drying off her mouth prettily as she raised herself up, searching for his forgotten tunic. But then her cheeks turned crimson as she looked him straight in the face as she bent close to his ear, her hair sliding against his face. “You can do all you want with me tonight, instead.”

He fucking groaned at that, and grinned at her embarrassment over being so straightforward even after all they had done together, flaming loving her for being his beautiful, spirited Little Bird with her spine made of steel, winter in her blood and a wolf’s courage in her heart. 

“Looking forward to it, Lady Stark,” he rasped hoarsely in return before they threw the rest of his clothes on to the deafening quiet of the hallway, all too late to pretend innocence if someone started adding two and two together. 

After having managed a fucking hazardous descending of the stairs, Sandor followed his lady out into the grey winter day, lightly armed and acting her shield but knowing he was in no fucking condition to do anything more than look intimidating. 

Jaime threw one look at them from inside his hood as they entered the snowy yard and rolled his eyes as _he_ at least knew his numbers. “You two look far too sated for your own good,” he murmured at them when Sandor finally could lean on the icy stone wall, making him glare and Sansa’s expression turn to stone. “Much better,” the Lion stated with a grin.

Sansa loosened up and grinned back at him as she nudged her arm under his. “I had better be escorted back again by you then, ser,” she replied, patting his arm playfully in the chill winter air.

Jaime just smiled down at the woman between them. “Yes, I think that would be safest so the sparks between you don`t set the inn on fire. Wouldn`t have liked that, would you, dog?”

Sandor just snorted in return. “You never tire of it, do you? I guess I could tell you a thing or two about inbred cats if we`re inside your burning inn, then,” he rasped in return.

“Yes, wouldn`t _that_ be fucking marvellous? I`ll order wine!” Jaime answered wryly, making Sansa shake her head at them both as they watched Brienne beat a redheaded squire senseless between the soldiers training mostly in pairs. Not to mention the snowy yard was supplied with three full squads of brats that a large old knight tried to shout into a semblance of men – and women – at arms. Even stick-boy was there.

They watched for a while until one little sod noticed them, and then another and another, until the whole yard had halted in what they were doing, snivelling urchins, men-at-arms and nobles alike, murmurs floating back and forth as they stared at the Lion and himself. The familiar way of horror and revulsion crossed a fair amount of faces at the sight of him, but a surprising amount of brats just looked plain awed - as though they were a pair of storybook knights wandered straight into the their midst. Fucking hell…

Jaime grinned at his squires, the redhead looking properly dishevelled, his breath misting in rapid exhales as he threw glances of distress at Brienne, who grinned widely down at him. Peck looked exactly as he had done the last time Sandor had seen him, lining up before the Battle of the Blackwater, apart from the excuse of a beard he`d plastered on his scrawny face. And the last one looked like he could be hung on the wall like a dreary tapestry and forgotten for an entire night.

They ended up bowing respectfully at Sansa before grasping arms and clapping backs until Sandor was about to punch someone for good measure… if he hadn`t been in such a wretched state that he would be forced to the ground by a squire a third of his size… _Seven hells, that would`ve outrun being carried to the privy by a woman by miles…_ The redhead was introduced as a Piper and the quiet one was a Paege, and both looked like they had heard enough stories about him to scare the shit out of them for years to come. Peck just shrugged his skinny shoulders, and scowled at Sandor for some reason. _Just try me you little shit, and I`ll fucking beat you to a pulp in a week’s time…_

Sansa turned to the yard in general and gave their introductions. Jaime had obviously been around enough for most of them to know him, but the hostile looks he received from the many sons of the riverlands would obviously take time to ease. Which was fair enough, seeing what the Lannisters had done to them and he being the fucking Kingslayer: Robb Starks’ trophy when he`d still been alive amongst them. Sandor silently memorized the men with the worst attitude, just in case they bloody well started to wonder why they were following Robb Stark’s sister when she`d made their trophy into a fucking hero…

Sandor himself was met with a strange kind of apprehensive indifference – if such a thing bloody existed. They knew perfectly well who he was, the ripple of shifting stances when his name was said out loud was obvious enough. But the riverlands had been torn to pieces, and the men left standing through the fire and blood had been scorched clean of the desire to make a fight out of nothing. Most of them just greeted him respectfully enough, too battle-hardened to care too much about a scarred dog outlawed by their enemies and cleared of the atrocities connected to his name – as long as he fought on their side.

What surprised him, though, was that the rest of the _orphans_ didn`t seemed afraid of neither him nor his horrible face at all. Children flocked around him fucking asking thousands of questions and the older ones measured his size and face with equal expressions of being flaming impressed. By his face. Which had always made brats run screaming away from him. What the fuck was wrong with this bunch?

The old knight was a pleasant surprise, though. Hard as oak and quick to get the assembled rabble into training again, barking orders like a seasoned master-at-arms. Which it turned out he`d more or less been, as Sansa presented the man as the former Captain of Guards of Riverrun… who Jaime apparently had sent to the Wall, but was being of service to his house and Sansa on his way there – creating some fucking awkward glances between the two of them.

But all in all, Sandor was satisfied with Sansa’s growing entourage. A company of battle hardened soldiers and a bunch nobles who had stood in mud and blood on the field instead of eating grapes and giving commands from their fucking tents. But standing there watching the bastards sparring was frustrating as hell. The few worth looking at had travelled hard only yesterday and were soon heading for warm baths and hot, spiced wine. So despite feeling like he`d run several miles just by the small walk from his bed to the yard, Sandor’s body itched to be exercised, trained, honed as it was used to. 

“Where`s Stranger stabled?” he asked Sansa, increasingly restless and suddenly remembering that being allowed outside was the same as being allowed to check on his horse. Bugger Elder Brother for making him lay fallow for so long…

She smiled her pretty smile at him. “Come, I`ll show you.”

Stranger whinnied happily at him when he found his stall, and then bit him half-heartedly in the shoulder when Sandor went in to him as if to add that his master couldn`t just show up like a fucking arse after two weeks and expect to be greeted like a bloody hero. Which suited Sandor just fine after the unnerving awe from the brats in the yard, and his vicious mount hadn`t even bitten through his skin for that matter. 

The stable was quiet, the only sounds were snorts from the horses and the swishing of tails between the munching sound hay being eaten. Every mount looked groomed and cared for, the straw clean and the floor swept, making Sandor grunt in satisfaction until he started taking a closer look at his faithful warhorse.

“Bloody hell, boy, you look like shit,” Sandor muttered when faced with the courser’s swollen and leaking shoulder. Stranger snorted at him. “Me too, I know.” 

He went over him as Sansa watched, looking nervous of all things. Cuts were healing nicely both on the horse’s body and his legs, three of them fine enough, but the fourth still hard with swelling even though the ragged wounds from a dog bite looked clean and pink, most of it scarring. Sandor grumbled to himself as he felt down and separated the different tendons, stroked tightly over joints, but couldn`t find anything ruined. Stranger needed new shoes, though. _Fuck._ That was always a problem…

He brushed the horse down, feeling increasingly exhausted and frustrated by the throbbing in his side and his fucking useless arm. But, stubbornly refusing to admit it, he took Stranger out for a walk and limped side by side with him out in the grey winter light, observing how he moved to the yard and back. 

“Well, the shoulder`s a bitch. He`ll either stop limping and be ready to be trained up after a while, or he`ll never fucking walk clean again… flip a bloody coin one way or the other… Seven hells…” Sandor muttered hoarsely as he rubbed Stranger’s black neck, feeling fucking sad at the possibility of needing to end it for him if he could never walk properly again. Stranger was a horse made for heavy work, he would go completely off the rails if put in a field with nothing to do. As would Sandor for that matter.

Sansa looked bloody miserable. “I _have_ tried to take good care of him, really… but I just _couldn`t_ manage to stitch him, and since Elder Brother said it might be for the best when it came to his shoulder because of the fluid and puss needing to come out, I… thought that…” she trailed off, looking sad as she stroked Stranger down his nose and was rewarded by being blown softly in her face – something she apparently took as a matter of course now. Blown in the face by Stranger. _His_ mount. Fuck him sideways… 

It all suddenly snapped into place in Sandor’s head and he could have kicked himself. “Sansa, fuck, listen… I didn`t mean it that way. He`s as shiny as a flaming gem and he doesn`t even bite your face off. I`m bloody _grateful_ you`ve tended to him! You`ve told it to me straight too many times yourself to listen to my bad temper and ill manners… Fucking hell, woman!” he grinned ruefully at her, making her smile shakily up at him in return.

“I just know how much you care for him,” she replied, looking heartened.

He simply dragged her towards him and turned, kissing her up against the stall, feeling how her arms went up and around his neck, and his expectations for tonight instantly flew sky-high, making him harden all over again. Sansa chuckled softly as she felt him nail her to the wall with his hips, and tried to push him away.

“No, stop, _Sandor,_ ” she whispered laughingly as he just used his good arm to pin her hands to the wall over her head, kissing her under her ear and down the arch of her neck, making her gasp and squirm against him even when she continued. “Really, we can`t do this, we can be _seen!”_

“Just fucking admit to it, Little Bird. It sets you off,” he answered breathlessly, releasing her wrists to cup her teat through her dress. 

She blushed like a sunset, but grinned and kissed him hard, her soft sounds of desire too fucking arousing, especially when she reached down and bloody well fondled him then and there, making him buck his cock hard towards her hand. He groaned and broke their kiss to get air into his lungs… and she was gone. Diving under his arm, quick as a snake. Laughing in delight when all he could flaming do was exchange a glance with Stranger and limp after her, hard as hell and shaking his head, grinning wryly at it all.

*  
*  
*

 **Part two**  
The rest of the day was barely liveable for a bloody seasoned soldier in unfulfilled need… He tried to sleep after struggling up the blasted stairs again, and managed it for a few hours at least, the dizzy exhaustion for once working in his favour. But as the evening neared, Sandor’s expectations continued to grow, no matter how hard he sought to ignore them. His mind kept trapping him in images of Sansa’s naked body, her teats against his face, her hips and arse moving, how her cunt would fit around him… making it fucking hard to concentrate on anything else.

But after Elder Brother had declared him healed enough to finally be able to take a bath, get a shave and dress in clean clothes, Jaime and himself went over their weapons and armour, finding enough to annoy him out of his longing. Not that he hadn`t expected his arms to be battered, but seven hells...

Brienne had cleaned their arms for them while they lay bedridden and his dagger and knives weren`t too fucked, just needed sharpening, but that was about it… Sandor’s brigandine had been cut to pieces to get him out of it, apparently, and everything else he had of steel was dented and notched, straps cut, metal and pins beaten into impossible angles. And his sword _might_ have been honed into a semblance of a weapon again, if it hadn`t had a deep notch twisting the steel halfway to its core. The Lion threw one glance at it and deemed him in severe need of a new sword, grumbling over the state of his own weapons and muttering something about another sword he`d had once which he obviously thought would have fared much better. 

And so Sansa Stark’s three sworn shields ended up trailing their lady down to the common room, unarmoured but armed with what they had, Sandor with a sword from the loot of fair enough quality strapped to his back. But bugger him how it rubbed to know that the male part of her guard bloody well wasn`t worth two shits in a fight right now. It didn`t help that Brienne just wrapped her arm around him without saying a word, either, supporting him down the fucking agonizing helltrap of a staircase, ignoring his protests and making Jaime grin at them. She had the brains to release him before they came into view of the people assembled downstairs, though. Fuck, it annoyed him, being in this state.

The common room was lit with flickering candles, flames burning in the two massive fireplaces and the tables and benches had been made into a single long table crossing the large room. The inn felt more or less restored to its old grandeur like this, filled to its ceiling with people, the common room buzzing with talk and laughter and with the smell of roasting meat thick in the air. It was supposedly built to accommodate a hundred and thirty people comfortably, but with a company of a hundred soldiers adding to the number of orphans, bannermen and themselves, the orphans probably slept two and three to a bed now. 

Lady Sansa had declared that her table welcomed _all_ of her household and people, in keeping with the northern spirit of a real Stark. So Elder Brother, the nobles and knights were seated at the top and common soldiers and orphans were mingling further down the length of it, the wine flowing freely enough to make most of the riverlanders seem in a fucking good mood already. 

Sansa glided over the floor as if she were at court, her head held high and her unbound hair flowing freely down her back, shining in the light, the simple dress she was wearing just highlighting her beauty and flaming dignity. Fuck, she`d grown into her role in these weeks… Sandor squared his shoulders and forced his blasted leg to cooperate, trying to walk as cleanly as possible as they crossed the room to the noise of benches scraping backwards, watching the ripple of bows and curtsies.

He held the chair for her and Sansa took her seat with a murmured ‘thank you,’ perfectly polite and nothing more, letting the three of them line up against the wall as if it were completely ordinary. Taking up his guard stance side by side with Brienne and Jaime behind Lady Stark’s chair, he started to study the assembled people and the room in general out of old habit, playing the role of the loyal sworn shield... which he flaming was, if not for the treacherous thoughts of breathing heavily down that perfectly arched neck right there before him. He watched the way she graciously dipped her head at nobles and orphans alike, but bloody well longed to feel those long tresses caressing him, fantasizing about her delicious arse sliding down his stomach until her cunt pressed down on his cock. _Seven hells, this will be the longest evening of my whole fucking life…_

Sansa was the perfect host, smiling and courteous, keeping the talk flowing without making it seem either strained or too festive, managing to be both welcoming and distant at the same time. She formally greeted Lord Karyl Vance –who`d had enough to do last night with finding accommodation for the company of men he`d brought with him – and praised the soldiers who`d managed to sneak through the riverlands to reach her, divided into ten squads to avoid unwanted attention. Instantly, she created a good feeling towards her from the newly arrived men, who promptly started to toast both her and their exploits, boasting and clapping each other’s backs. _Fuck, men are easily won idiots… works to Sansa’s advantage, though…_

Willow and the innkeep came carrying trays of roasted horse with herbs, followed by several girls with other trays bearing baked potatoes, turnips and carrots. A meagre meal compared to what this inn had served King Robert’s entourage on their way back south, but a fucking luxury nowadays. And Sansa behaved like she`d been served honey-glazed swan from the royal kitchens, praising the innkeep with perfect courtesy and smiling at the children serving her.

The need for the three of them to behave as sworn shields should was bloody obvious, though. Sansa had been completely right in judging that half the table thought them fucking heroes and the other part wanted nothing more than to wring their flaming Lannister necks. So Sandor kept his face impassive and did his duty, trying to ignore that standing utterly still like this was the same as going insane with the gnawing pain of his side, and entering his two-layer state to fight it off as he`d always done when on guard-duty while recovering from injuries. 

Jaime stood on the other side of Brienne, looking so bloody arrogant that it fucking hurt to glance at him. But his green eyes were glittering wryly at all the obvious loathing and hateful glances from the soldiers, his mouth set in a stubborn line. Bugger him, it felt strange not being the main outcast for once… he tried to imagine what it might be like to be the son of the mighty Tywin in the midst of all these riverlanders; the Golden fucking Knight, the Lion of Lannister, degraded to standing guard for a Stark, heading for the ring in the riverlands to fight against his own house… Sandor silently concluded that Jaime had climbed a good way up the ladder where _real_ bloody honour was concerned, sacrificing a lot more than he and Brienne had to follow Sansa. 

Sandor was used to the revulsion that followed his face and just bored his own gaze back into the eyes lingering too long. What still had him on edge, though, was the fucking orphans’ pointing and grinning, looking anything but petrified. He felt the need to take one orphan and use him to strangle another just to make a point, but instead he turned his attention to Sansa again. Which just ended in frustration as watching her eat prettily with the mouth that had slid warm and wet up and down his cock mere hours ago was enough to make it harden again. And he couldn`t even adjust the damned thing… bloody hell…

Mercifully, as the meal dragged on, his leg started aching and his arm began to throb until he was so annoyed by his own state that he didn`t need to worry about how his coat concealed his cock anymore, but felt the burnt side of his mouth starting to twitch instead. He hoped the bastards staring at him thought it was because he was seriously considering wringing their necks in return – which was a bloody satisfying thought come to think of it – he glared right back, taking great pleasure in picking out those who deserved to have the shit beaten out of them at a later date.

He had gotten a clear impression of the people assembled, at least, mapped out possible threats and noted who was clearly not. The younger orphans, for instance, had obviously decided that Lady Stark was the Mother made flesh and the elder ones seemed to struggle not to follow the younger ones’ lead. They looked suspiciously well cared for, with clean clothes, clothes _at all,_ and brushed hair. All of it screaming of Sansa’a touch, so they fucking _should_ be grateful to her; nobody else would have picked up the responsibility for fifty flaming orphans in the middle of a war and winter. 

The youth who had to be the Broderhood’s smith was sat stuffed in between some knights and seemed uncomfortable enough for two, which was natural enough as the two sers flanking him kept looking at the lad as if they should tell him to fucking fetch something. And Sandor had to agree with Sansa on her point about his appearance, recognizing him as the apprentice he`d thought he was. But whether he was the old king’s bastard or not was hard to say as no true child of that fat old bugger had ever been on display except for… Edric Storm. 

The lad was said to be the very image of his sire, if someone would just cut his Florent ears off… _Wonder what this Mya looks like?_ Because the rest of the products of the King of Whoring’s escapades had gone down on Cersei’s orders, hadn`t they? The black-haired boy saw him looking and nearly shat himself by his expression, but his brows furrowed instantly in sullen defiance, making him look stubborn enough to eat rocks, clearly remembering Sandor from the same incident from which Sandor remembered him. But he glared murder at the table top instead of picking a fight, and the glances he resumed sending at Sansa carried no threat to her, even though they lingered a bit too long for Sandor’s comfort. 

Elder Brother sat talking quietly to Lady Mallister, whose eyes shot daggers at the Lion from time to time, and who had given Sandor one look and obviously concluded that of all the ill-reputed villains Sansa could have chosen as her shield, he was clearly the worst amongst them. _If you only knew how Lady Stark moans with my fingers up her cunt, you old cow…_ Bugger her… or maybe that was the bloody problem, with her husband tucked away at Seagard and Black Walder Frey patrolling around outside, she probably hadn`t been fucked properly for a very long time, no wonder she had gone sour. _What does that make me, then? It`s been bleeding years since I had my cock inside a woman._ And that got him going all over again… seven save him…

Turning his attention back to the assembled people, it was reassuring to see that even though the riverlanders would all clearly like to kill Jaime messily if they got the chance, his three squires seemed equally set on preventing that from happening. Sitting side-by-side and looking hard as flint, doing their own obvious survey of the men who would receive a talking to. And, most importantly, both squires and riverlanders alike seemed eager to prove their loyalties to the Stark with Tully blood sitting like a queen amongst them. All in all a fucking affectionate family reunion in comparison to a simple royal meal in King’s Landing.

Sandor and Jaime were taken off duty when the meal was nearing its end, leaving Brienne to guard their lady alone after all the formal toasting was done and the table was filled with full and contented men, drinking their wine, boasting and laughing. The children added their lighter tones to the noise filling the room, eating like this was their last meal and more or less behaving under Long Jeyne’s hard gaze and Willow’s ladle. 

Sandor took the lead down the table, forcing his leg to cooperate, and stopped where the nobles turned to soldiers. He expected Sansa to want to raise them up the ranks herself when the time was right, after all, instead of it being seen as her Lannister shields taking liberties. And even though Jaime could have demanded a higher place at the table, Sandor’s birth alone certainly wasn`t worth more than where he stood, trying to breathe evenly as he stared down the pudgy bugger in front of him.

“Move,” he rasped in a low growl, pain pulsing out in forks from his side, feeling frustrated like hell because the hours seemed as though they were standing still and he was fucking tired of the obnoxious fuckers’ stares by now, anyway.

“Why?” the bastard answered, to the sniggers of his comrades, his drunken eyes measuring Sandor up. “After all, I only need to throw a candle at you before the fearsome Lannister dog runs with his tail between his legs, eh?” 

Positively _feeling_ Sansa’s eyes warning him not to do something he would regret as a wave of strangled laughter lifted around him, Sandor just grinned viciously down at the sod, but before he could open his mouth to reply, the Lion snorted loudly behind him.

“Yes, try that, would you? Just don`t be surprised when he suffocates you with a torch down your throat in return. Now, move over before Lady Stark asks her commander for the most expeditious means of disciplining pike-men with wine-dregs for brains,” Jaime said, sounding so impressively contemptuous that it was a bloody wonder the idiot didn`t just flare up on the spot. _Quick thinking, Lion. I`ll command when she asks me, though, not before._

But Sansa followed up on Jaime’s words without breaking stride, so when the man looked up the table for confirmation he met Lady Stark’s ice-cold gaze, making him swallow as the table went unnervingly quiet. Sandor grinned savagely at him when the bastard glanced at his infamous face once more, his own stare following the man as he promptly moved his square arse down the bench while grumbling something about ‘not being a fucking pike, ser.’ 

“And I`m no ser, but just keep on pissing me off, you whoreson, and you _will_ be a fucking pike,” Sandor rasped in return, looking forward to seeing the sod trampled by red-clad cavalry.

Willow and Stick-boy shouldered in, competing to serve Jaime and himself vegetables and thick slices of meat that tasted fucking delicious after two weeks on broth, soup and thin fucking porridge. Stick-boy poured wine for him and Willow pointedly put a cup of water next to it, smiling when he glanced questioningly at her before bobbing a fucking horrible curtsy and trotting back to the kitchen for more tasks. Jaime grinned at him and shook his head when Sandor gesticulated after the girl, silently asking what the fuck was going on. The Lion just laughed in return and mouthed ‘woman who loves you’ back, lifting the cup Stick-boy had just filled. 

So they toasted to the confusing pack-mentality of women in general, and drank at a completely different pace. Sandor had no intention of getting drunk this night and bloody well felt fucking riled by Sansa setting her maid to watch him, but came to the simple conclusion that it was down to priorities. They would not row tonight, they would fuck, and for that he was ready to swallow all kinds of insults. ‘For fuck’s sake’ had never sounded more appropriate, he thought, smirking to himself.

Jaime, on the other hand, apparently had every intention of getting shitfaced, and no wonder with half the table alternating between wishing him dead and sniggering at him in their cups. Lord Karyl Vance sat staring down the table at Jaime as well, the men flanking him apparently having the time of their life watching the Lion of Lannister disgraced by sitting with the common men. 

Jaime himself ignored them admirably, talking about old battles and great tourneys with Sandor, throwing down his wine and starting to send long glances at Brienne, who fucking noticed for once, blushed furiously and very pointedly turned away to continue doing her job as guard. But mostly, they just ate their food and drank their wine, keeping to themselves and bloody _behaving_ like Sansa wanted. Sandor for _his_ part just wanted the hours to hurry the fuck up… 

But, as the evening went by and the wine did its work, the mood lifted and reserve turned to drunken camaraderie. Some bugger started singing like a squashed frog, and before long the tables were shoved up against the walls, instruments appearing out of fucking nowhere as a straw-haired youngster with armour scuff marks on his clothes sang every song known to man.

Jaime dropped down beside him on the bench after having been out for a piss as Sansa was bid to dance with yet another titled sod and the youngest of the orphans were herded to bed by Willow and her ladle.

“I`m finally properly drunk!” he exclaimed happily. “You know it for a fact when you need to hold onto something when you`re pissing!” he grinned, slurring his words slightly, and poured himself some more wine.

“Lucky bastard,” Sandor grumbled in return, twirling his half-empty cup in his hands and trying to keep on top of his bloody exhaustion, the thudding agony of his side reverberating in pace with his leg too fucking much to even take into consideration. And, he was starting to feel pretty annoyed by all the male attention Sansa had focussed on her at the moment… That Baratheon bastard kept on studying her, as well. Interested in her wild little sister, not bloody likely… Probably the same age as Sansa, too…

“Ah, don`t worry, she`ll come around on your drinking,” Jaime said absentmindedly, glancing at Brienne who stood conveniently placed up against the wall nearest the dancing orphans and riverlanders alike.

“She`s coming right now, at least,” Sandor replied as Sansa managed to disentangle herself from a drunk knight pretending to be sober and headed for their table, all elegant posture and swishing skirts, eyes fastened on him for the first fucking time this entire night.

She sat down on the bench beside him, stroking out her skirts, sitting straight-backed and gorgeous, flushed from the dancing. Making him want to drag her close to him and kiss her hard for all to see so they would back the fuck off, even though he knew he couldn`t do anything of the kind. “Tired of men slobbering on you?” he rasped irritably before thinking, cursing himself immediately. 

Sansa just looked at him, puzzled, all auburn hair and deep blue eyes, so young and pretty that he just itched to throw her over his shoulder again and carry her upstairs. “Are you… jealous, Sandor?” she murmured curiously, her hands folding carefully in her lap as if she was restraining herself from touching him. 

“Might be,” he grumbled back, trying to fucking reason irritably with her as the music reached a new level of enthusiasm. “I get sick and tired of it just watching; how can you stand all the fucking groping and staring? They might as well stand in a line with their fucking cocks in their hands!”

Sansa looked like she was on the brink of getting offended, but then just sighed and looked bloody _compassionately_ at him. “Sandor, no one has _groped_ me, this is nothing more than common courtesy. And I have only danced with my bannermen and the ones with high enough status, even though I wouldn`t have _minded_ dancing with the smallfolk. But, it`s not like I`ve been spinning around the common room like a tavern wench either.”

“No, that`s Pia’s job!” the Lion shot in.

“Behave!” Sansa replied, a glint of steel in her eyes, pointing a finger at him. “You are talking about Peck’s wife!” she said, making Jaime raise his hands in drunken submission before she turned to Sandor again. “Are you finished being jealous?” 

“No, I`m bloody not,” Sandor growled, all his frustrations over the course of the evening pouring out, making the Lion bloody melt into the wall beside him, nursing his wine and pretending he didn`t exist. “That flaming Baratheon bastard has been fucking you with his eyes for hours. Just your type as well, apparently,” he rasped annoyed. “Except maybe for the fact that he`s too bloody handsome?” 

Sansa stared at him as if he had completely lost his mind. “Which part of ‘he likes Arya’ was it you didn`t understand?” she asked incredulously. 

Sandor felt his irritation flare as he met her eyes stubbornly. “What idiot would ever prefer your wild little sister over you? Do you fucking _like_ the way he stares at you or should I do something about it?”

Sansa just leant forward and pierced him with her blue eyes before cupping her hand over his ear as if to be heard over the music. “ _Gendry_ would prefer my little sister – who, if she`s alive, is not that little anymore, you stupid dog. And yes, he`s handsome, and well muscled,” she whispered, making Sandor fucking bristle, “but _you,_ ” she breathed, “could have disarmed him or any other man here, and tied them in knots one-handed before they could even manage to blink. And I don`t know why I respond like this, but for some reason, that just makes me _ache_ for you.” 

He felt his own lips part and heard the small noise deep in his throat, staring at her when she leant back again, so fucking aroused by those few sentences that his brain simply stopped functioning, unable to provide an answer of any kind.

Luckily, he didn`t need to, as she obviously found what she was looking for in his eyes, the lust burning in her own eyes too fucking brightly in a room full of people. “No one can ever compare to you,” she murmured, repeating her heated whispers from the tent, and raised her bloody amazing body off the bench, starting to thank her bannermen for a lovely evening and collecting Brienne before she glided up the stairs. The fucking Queen in the North if she`d wanted it.

“Right. That`s an invitation, dog,” Jaime said, definitely slurring his words by now, watching Sansa’s retreating back. 

“It was, wasn`t it? Fucking hell…” Sandor muttered back, feeling arousal flood him at the mere thought of what waited for him upstairs – and was halfway off the bench before Jaime kicked him under the table.

“No, fucking _Sansa,_ ” the bastard replied under the music. “The good way. And you need to wait a bit. Trust me, I know all the tricks for not being found out.”

He was right of course… Seven, bleeding hells. Trying to keep down the lust burning hotly in his veins, drinking his wine _slowly_ as he willed time to go faster all over again, Sandor ended up looking sideways at the happily drunk Lion.

“So… ever had a maiden before?” he rasped, needing something to occupy his thoughts for just a little while longer while watching the soldiers twirling the older girls around under Long Jeyne’s narrowed eyes. 

“As in, had Cersei fucked every stable-hand at Casterly Rock before me?” Jaime asked in return, bitterness colouring his voice even if he looked just as arrogant as always.

“Might have had,” Sandor replied ruefully, remembering the Lord’s daughter quite well from that time.

“She _had_ decency once, you know…” Jaime murmured, as if breaking in your maidenhead on your twin brother was considered decent by anyone else. But then he got a grip and grinned at Sandor. “I`ve had two as a matter of fact, and you know them both.”

“Bloody hells, I _knew_ you were fucking Brienne,” Sandor exclaimed hoarsely, toasting the bastard. “Did she crush you?”

“No crushing, just sweet relief,” the Lion replied with a drunken grin. But there was something bloody tender in his gaze as he looked Brienne’s way, flashing his even teeth at her as she reappeared from the stairs and crossed the room to the kitchens, finally able to eat _her_ meal.

“So..?” Sandor started, trying to prod Jaime in the direction of _taking_ those maidenheads, but the sod just grinned knowingly back at him. “How… fuck Jaime, stop being an arse… I haven`t the faintest idea what kind of women I`ve fucked over the years, but I`m pretty sure none of them were maidens.”

Jaime’s face looked like it would split in sheer fucking amusement. Cocky bastard. “You would have noticed, believe me… apart from the _feeling,_ they either slap you or go completely silent in my experience.”

Sandor laughed in spite of aching injuries and needy frustration. “Cersei _slapped_ you?”

“Hard as hell! Had to pretend I`d walked straight into my bedroom door,” Jaime grinned wryly back at him, before toasting Sandor. “Just… take it nice and easy, warm her up like you`ve done since the mountains and she`ll be moaning into your neck in no time… after a couple of tries, at least…”

Right. That was… reassuring. But the thought of Sansa moaning as he fucked her had his already simmering lust surge, his cock fucking jumping in his breeches. How long was he bloody well supposed to wait?

“I just don`t want her to hurt… too much,” he rasped at the Lion, as Brienne re-emerged from the kitchens carrying a tray of food and the straw-haired lad gave in to loud demands for Six Maids in a Pool.

Jaime just snorted drunkenly and looked him up and down. “Good luck with that!”

Standing in front of the door to his room, trying to catch his breath as he cursed the stairs to all seven hells and doing his best to ignore how his body thrummed in pain, he concluded this felt _fucking_ strange. Ceremonial in some twisted way, like he was about to enter his own wedding night, hard as hell and filled with expectations. Only to make her Tyrion’s wife. 

Pushing _that_ thought down as far as it would go, Sandor went in, feeling his blood boil with so much exciting lust and want and fucking desperate longing, and found the room warm and inviting. Several new logs were burning in the fireplace, the candles lit, and Sansa turned to smile at him over by the window. She crossed the room as he closed the door behind him, and he was suddenly grateful for all the noise and music floating through from downstairs, fucking relieved at not having to restrain their own noises too much.

She stopped before him, tilting her head up to look deep into his soot-black soul, looking so young and clear without her shiny shield of courtesy and propriety. Sentences and memories were mixing together in Sandor’s head as they stared at each other, translucent layers of the years shared in thoughts if not together blowing those sentences to life… _I could keep you safe… You came back for me…_ He bloody well had, hadn`t he? _They`re all afraid of me… I trust you…_ And she didn`t trust easily anymore, his Little Bird. _No one would hurt you again, or I`d kill them… I love you._ She loved him. Looking down into those beautiful deep blue eyes, Sandor felt that they were fucking exchanging their own kind of commitment… silently, knowingly. 

And then they just went for each other.

Her arms reached up around his neck and all pain was forgotten as she tilted her head and pulled him hard down towards her, her mouth so fucking soft and sweet as she kissed him hungrily. He parted her lips with his tongue and heard himself moan into her mouth when _her_ tongue instantly found his, sliding, teasing, caressing his upper lip and licking the unburnt side of his mouth as he breathed raggedly. The way she pressed herself towards him and whimpered as he grabbed her firm arse hard making Sandor’s arousal roar sky-high, his cock twitching in his breeches. 

“So, how was your evening?” Sansa half-moaned between kisses. “Apart from glowering at every man looking my way?”

“Hard,” he rasped breathlessly against her lips, and bucked his hips desperately towards her, groaning his exhale as he did so, needing that stimulus so _fucking_ badly.

Sansa gasped in return, bloody writhing up against him, so he lifted her with his sword arm and turned without thinking, grunting in pain as his leg protested mightily, but nailed her to the door as _her_ legs folded around his waist. She dragged up her skirts and moaned instantly in pleasure as he bucked his throbbing cock hard against her cunt, meeting his motion as he rubbed himself towards her and buried his face in her neck to strangle his own breathless groans, too fucking aroused to care that his side burned like hell.

Unfortunately Sandor’s fucking useless leg refused to cooperate in carrying anything more than his own weight, making him groan in frustrated pain as it gave in, half-stumbling before regaining his balance. Sansa just hugged him to her, murmuring concernedly as she hurriedly unwrapped her legs and slid down his body as he leant towards the door, but she continued to kiss him into a frenzy straight away and dragged him towards the bed. 

Sitting down on it, Sansa grinned breathlessly at him again, so fucking unbelievably beautiful, making him stroke strands of hair away from her face as he stood before her, looking down at her. And exhaled raggedly as she took hold of the back of his thighs and kissed the hard bulge in his breeches, sending heavy arousal pulsing through him as her white teeth grazed the outline of his cock gently.

“Oh seven hells, that feels… so fucking good,” he gasped as her lips and teeth teased the head of him, her hand stroking over his arse and pressing him towards her face.

She just smiled her pretty smile in return, her hands moving to unbuckle his belt, unlacing him as he just stood there, panting in need, knowing he should do something for her but finding himself too dazed by lust to move before her hand was on him. The desperate sound that escaped his lips as she took his aching cock out of his breeches made Sansa fucking moan as well, kissing the root of him, licking his balls as her hand stroked back to reveal the head of his manhood. 

She kissed him wetly up and up as he buried his hands in her hair, looking down on her, enthralled, his cock moving in want in her hand as she finally reached the tip. And licked him. Slowly. From the knot of flesh underneath it, her tongue parting his slit before following the ridge around the head of him, making his knees fucking buckle in pleasure as he moaned helplessly.

He fucked into her mouth in heavy prickling need of its soft friction, but it felt too fucking good and his long-carried expectations ran too high, making him come all too close to release. Even though he knew he would need precious little time to get it up again afterwards, he wanted this to be some sort of fulfilment of the weeks of longing, not split into pieces, no matter how good it felt. And, he wanted this to be as pleasurable as it could be for his Little Bird, wanted her to moan as he fucked her, and that needed warming up now didn`t it? Ten points to the Lion.

So he retreated, swallowing his body’s howls of disappointment as he cupped her face with his hands and sat down beside her, kissing her delicious mouth with all the love he felt for her, feeling how she melted up against him. Her hands unbuckled the swordbelt around his chest, and he caught the weapon as it slid off his back, dropping it to the floor, not caring one whit about such things right now. Instead he set his hands to better use, kissing her until she whimpered in arousal as his fingers traced the underside of her breasts, tugging at her lacings as she unravelled the knots holding his coat together. 

Sansa pushed the garment off his shoulders, and dragged it carefully off his injured arm. He folded the bodice of her dress aside so he could cup her teats through her small clothes, getting a hard punch of lust to his groin at unlacing her _upper_ body for the first time. How many times had he glanced at her laces in King’s Landing when her growing teats had nearly come out of the top of her too small dresses? Careful not to touch her no matter how much she squirmed, he circled her nipples with his fingertips, his cock so hard that he fucking _felt_ himself starting to leak. 

Sandor unlaced the bodice of her small clothes as well, but instead of letting her teats spill out he held onto the silken ties and only tugged the garment down enough to expose the rounded tops of her pink nipples. Breaking their kiss, he watched in fascination as the silken rim caressed the puckered half-moons, the way her chest heaved with desire making her stiff nipples rub so prettily against the fabric, bloody well making her shiver in his arms. Looking the perfect lady love, her eyes dazed with lust, her plump lips parted, half undressed and with tumbling auburn locks down to her arse. In _his_ arms. Fuck was he a lucky bastard.

“So you like my skills as a fighter, do you, Little Bird?” he murmured breathlessly at her as he started kissing down her neck, still surprised at having something to offer that she found attractive in return, the reasons why she liked him at all still a bit hazy to him, _except_ for the protection part, but… it felt bloody good to hear her saying why she desired him… that she`d said straight out that she loved him felt plain out… incredible, even now.

“Yes,” she gasped against his temple when he cupped her teat through her smallclothes once more as his mouth neared her curves. Hearing himself groan against her skin as the sensation of the soft, young firmness in his hand spiralled directly to his wanting cock. “You`re just so utterly… capable. It... sets… me off… watching you fight… you should have heard me during the melee in the Vale,” she breathed down in his hair, moaning softly as his thumb finally stroked over her nipple. “I even… oh, Gods… please… keep doing that… cheered for you during the Hand’s Tourney.”

“You did?” Sandor more or less groaned, surprised and for some reason blown into a new level of ragged need. “Why in seven hells did you do that, you crazy bird? I`d threatened to _kill_ you the night before!” he panted, grinding his exposed cock towards her thigh as he laid them both down on their sides, refusing to acknowledge the raging pain that howled through him, too fucking aroused to care.

“Yes, but you also gave me something of yourself that nobody else knew…” Sansa whispered breathlessly, her hips rolling in circles as he sucked her pulse point, feeling how it raced under his lips, lust at the whole setting stabbing hard through him, erasing the traces of agony still simmering in him. “And I just _knew_ you would triumph over _Ser_ Jaime Lannister,”

Fucking hell… she`d cheered for him when he`d tilted Jaime off his horse? _I fucking love you!_ He couldn`t remember anyone cheering him on unless it was to crush the face of some sod they hated… But her eyes didn`t lie and her hands were tugging at the lacings of his tunic as she pressed herself towards him, half-kissing him and sliding one arm over his shoulder and down under the coarse fabric to caress his back, the other stroking up his neck. 

Her fingers entwined themselves in his hair as his hands squeezed her bloody flawless teats, waiting until she started to whimper before letting his tongue slide over the top of her nipple. Sansa moaned loud and clear, making his cock throb like hell, the sensation of his mouth on the union between her silky skin and the puckered evidence of her arousal so fucking amazing. He lifted his head as he loosened the laces completely, groaning through gritted teeth as he watched her heaving chest pushing her stiff, pink nipples over the lining of the fabric.

“Oh, Gods…” she gasped as he lost what little control he`d had and lowered his face to take her nipple in his mouth. Laying his shield-arm around her and ignoring its protests, Sandor grabbed her arse roughly, rubbing her towards him in pace with his desperately bucking hips, gasping at the blessed friction. Bloody hell, she was so intoxicating… And fuck him, he was so bloody hard that it neared painful already, feeling in severe need of getting his clothes properly off. But her moans were just too pretty to disturb as he flicked his tongue over her nipple, so he just shoved her thigh up between his legs so he could rub himself against her, pleasure and need sending him high as hell. 

Sansa seemed in agreement about the clothes, apparently, being just as aroused as he was, writhing in his arms as she started dragging up his tunic, but lifted her chest after his mouth when he released her nipple to get the blasted thing off. She sat up and helped him get rid of the garment and groaned brilliantly as she stroked her hands over his still colourful upper body, tracing his new scars with the tips of her fingers. Her ragged breathing turned to a helpless moan of desire when he grinned at her and tensed the muscles under her hands. Imagine what could get Little Birds off… seven hells.

On the other hand, Sandor knew perfectly well what got _him_ into a frenzy, and how anyone could look so bloody magnificent as Sansa did with her teats spilling out of her dress was flaming beyond him. Those tight, tempting nipples stood as erect as his cock as she laid her arms around him and caressed his chest with them, having him literally on his knees with lust.

Sandor tried to get his boots off as she kissed his shoulder and stroked tightly over his arms and chest, her fingertips following the hair down its stripe to his cock and touched his rock hard manhood lightly before he lost it and gave up undressing for now, groaning deeply as he dragged her towards him. Which in turn made his shield-arm give in and sent them both toppling down to the mattress again, making him grunt as burning agony spiked through him in forks from his side and arm, his leg not far behind.

“Sandor… Gods… Are you all right?” Sansa murmured concernedly, her arms folded carefully around him as he waited for the stabs of pain to diminish. 

“Don`t worry,” he muttered back, breathing shallowly, turning his face to look at her, threading his fingers into the tresses surrounding her face, the hunger still in her eyes enough to make him want to rip her clothes off and fuck her hard no matter his blasted injuries, maid or not. _But I won`t, because I fucking love you._ “Priorities.”

Something wry had entered her gaze, as if she knew he had some thoughts best left unsaid. But she exhaled raggedly as he kissed her other nipple, sucking it gently, the lust burning in him building massively as he pulled down her dress to her waist. Her bare arms embracing him eagerly feeling so good as her hands stroked tightly over the muscles in his back, over his shoulders and up his neck, her fingers twining into his hair once more.

She moaned long and prettily as he took her nipple gently between his teeth, her hands pressing his head towards her as she arched her back and spread her legs. His own arousal pulsing high as the heavens when he stroked up under her skirts, the silkiness of her skin so bloody incredible - and moaned loudly despite himself in pure fucking pleasure when he reached her cunt and found her so fucking wet for him, no smallclothes in the way, just slick folds, her nub swollen and wanting.

“Bloody hells, have you… did you… sit at that table all evening without smallclothes?” he groaned shakily.

“Wet and waiting for you,” she whispered softly, burying her face in his neck so he nearly _felt_ the heat radiating from her face as his body roared in response.

Fuck she was spirited. Gods, he wanted her. He didn`t even know what to do if she refused him now, he needed her cunt so much, needed to sheath himself inside her… here, _now_ … fucking hell.

She shivered when he touched her, clinging to him and whimpering as he spread her wetness, biting and kissing his neck, driving him flaming insane. Sandor pressed two fingers to her entrance as his thumb started to move in light circles over her pretty little nub, and was rewarded by Sansa’s ragged moan of pleasure against his skin.

“Fuck, you`re so delicious, my wanton Little Bird,” he gasped, freeing her from his neck so he could drink her in as she lay half-naked next to him with her hands sliding down to his upper arms. Making him groan when Sansa rolled her hips and fucked his fingers into her cunt as she moaned long and breathlessly, embarrassed but looking straight at him, trusting him, knowing him. He kissed his way up under her ear, sucking on her earlobe, her stiff nipples caressing him as he flicked his thumb faster over her nub, feeling how she pressed herself harder down on his fingers.

“Do you want me to break it?” he whispered into her hair. “I don`t know, but… fuck, it _has_ to help if you`re opened up a bit before I…”

“Yes, that might be a good idea,” she gasped in return. “But please… get me out of this dress first, I want to… I want... _you._ ” 

The need just exploded between them, as it so often had before, creating a breathless needy kind of impatience as they both wanted more of what they already were doing. Undressing _her_ was done in seconds, dragging her skirts and underskirts down her long legs, getting her stockings and shoes off in the same movement. Getting _his_ breeches and boots off, on the other hand, frustrated him no end. No matter how aroused he was, his side ached and his wounds burned to the point were it felt like he was tearing up inside when he tried to bend and stretch more than he had since before he got them. He tried to conceal it but Sansa let her gaze rest on him for half a heartbeat before catching on. 

“Sandor, really… _should_ we go through with this? We can do it another time, I don`t want you to damage your injuries further…” she said worriedly. On her knees. Wet and naked. With her chest heaving so her breasts bobbed alluringly.

“Are you flaming insane?” he asked incredulously, breathing just as raggedly as she was, his cock throbbing hard in want, fluid leaking down his shaft, so fucking close. “I only need some help bloody undressing, woman!”

Sansa looked him up and down concernedly before smiling, mirth and lust mixing in her eyes. “I like undressing you, so if you really think you can go through with it, that won`t be a problem, my stubborn non-ser,” she murmured, pushing him gently down on his back before getting his boots and stockings off. 

She let her hands slide over his upper body, caressing slowly down his sides to his hips and took hold of the lining of his breeches. Her fingertips following the inside forwards, making him exhale hard before she simply folded his lacing aside and bent down to fucking take him in her mouth again, dragging the garment down as his hips lifted in agonized pleasure.

Sandor moaned helplessly, grabbing hold of her hair and loosing his wits once and for all as he watched her arched back and curved arse, her teats caressing his balls as she licked over the head of him. And then took him deep in her mouth, as deep as she could go, apparently having noticed how much he liked it. 

“Oh, bloody hells…” he gasped. “Fuck, Sansa… too good, Gods…” 

She just continued sucking him in slow deep movements of her head, until he was so fucking close to releasing that he ended up grabbing her hair and dragging her roughly off him, bucking his hips in a need so heavy he thought he would fucking die of it.

“It`s _you_ who`s the maiden here, not me,” he rasped raggedly. “It`s supposed to be _me_ warming you up, not the other way around.”

She just smiled radiantly at him as he hurried to loosen his grip on her hair. “It`s warming me up as well,” she said, cheeks reddening sweetly when he groaned at her words. Bloody hell, how did she always know what to say to strum every fucking chord in him?

“You get off on sucking my cock, Little Bird?” he rasped, his whole body a churning chaos of lust and arousal as the thought really took hold…

“Yes,” she breathed back, blushing scarlet as she looked him straight in the eye, making pulsing need stab hard through the storm inside him, his wet cock twitching in pleasure. 

“Oh, bloody hell…” he gasped. “I`ll warm you up twice as much, then.” 

Too fucking dazed by desire to even wonder if this was something one did to maids, he kicked off the breeches around his calves and flipped her around as he laid back, ignoring her squeak and grabbing her firmly over her hips as he positioned her so her flat stomach rested down his chest, her teats pressed to his abdomen. Sansa panted as she caught on, spreading her legs wide for him and moved tentatively up against his face, fucking moaning already. Sandor heard himself groan in return as he tilted his hips so she could reach him, and licked her sweet, pink cunt with the tip of his tongue as she took him in her mouth again.

And seven bleeding hells, how fucking high it was possible to soar on pleasure and desire alone. Their simultaneous moans mixed and Sandor bloody well writhed in intense pulsing need and delicious stimulation at the fucking amazing experience of fucking into her warm mouth, her lush lips around him, as he tasted the wetness of her sweet cunt, feeling her slick and silky folds against his mouth. Feeling her tongue flick hot and fast down his shaft, sucking him eagerly as her hands caressed his balls, her fingertips even stroking _behind_ them. Making him groan loudly against her as he licked her between her folds, flicked fast over her nub, kissing her, grazing her with his teeth, _his_ fingertips caressing over her pretty arse as his thumb pressed into her cunt until he felt her maidenhead yield.

He kissed her nub, sucking on it as she fucked his broad finger until her whimpers turned high-pitched, before slowly increasing the pressure.

She let go of his cock, but continued to move. “Use the scarred side of your mouth,” she moaned, “Oh, Gods _yes!_ ” 

Amazed at the idea that having a part of his mouth burned off could somehow be an advantage in bed, Sandor let his scarred lips tighten and move around her nub, his tongue flicking fast over the tip of it as her mouth sunk down on his cock, making him groan hard against her as he pressed his fingers into her, feeling her maidenhead tear around them.

It obviously stung, but she didn`t seem too bothered about it, just stiffened for a couple of heartbeats before she started moving hesitantly, rolling her hips carefully towards his hand as he sucked on her nub until she moaned and pressed her cunt up against his heated face again. The both of them ended up bucking their hips in pace, grinding towards the other’s mouth in a surge of white-hot need for release that fucking roared like a maelstrom between them, her whimpers vibrating around his cock, until he just couldn`t take anymore.

He rolled them both onto their sides and grabbed her arm, dragging her up to him, ignoring everything other than the pleasure reverberating inside him. “Please let me fuck you,” he whispered, pressing his face into her hair, bloody mortified at breaking down and pleading first, even though every bloody fibre of his being had been dragged into a ‘now’ consisting only of finally being allowed to take her. Now. _Please. I love you._

She smiled against his temple in his hard embrace and kissed him, lying herself backwards and tightened her arms around him to make him lie _partly_ on top of her at least, shifting so the head of his cock throbbed in intense need against her nub, making his expectations build rapidly. 

“Please…” she whispered breathlessly, kissing his lips softly, lovingly. “ _Please_ Sandor. I want to feel you moving inside me. I want you to fuck me. I`m… _yours._ ” 

She sounded so honestly needy and slightly apprehensive at the same time, pressing herself towards him as he kissed her heatedly. Pure fucking joy sending him sky-high as she moaned softly when he increased the pressure of his cock lightly on her swollen nub before trying to get properly on top of her.

Sansa’s arms were holding hard around him, her soft noises of arousal into his mouth singing so bloody sweetly in his ears as he tried to get his fucking shield-arm to cooperate. Tried to position himself without his leg feeling like it was about to split open again. Tried to ignore his side as Sansa spread her legs for him, releasing so much pulsing need that it was a fucking wonder that he didn`t just peak at once despite the pain. But he just couldn`t put weight on his bandaged arm at all, and frustration was starting to pound through him.

“Wait,” Sansa whispered. “Sandor wait…”

“What? Changed your bloody mind?” he growled, immediately feeling like a fucking arse, panting in anger over the fair maid. Bloody hell, she was right, he _wasn`t_ properly housebroken… 

Sansa just shook her head mirthfully at him and stroked his scarred cheek, kissing him softly, lovingly, her naked skin against him and her arms around him comforting in so many ways. 

“Sit against the headboard,” his Little Bird whispered against his lips and pushed gently at him to get him up. She moved to stack pillows behind him when he slowly sat down where she wanted, the noise from downstairs reaching a completely new level as half a company of pissing drunk soldiers shouted out the last verse of ‘The Day They Hanged Black Robin’. 

Even though he hated admitting to needing to be propped up like an old man, it _was_ a fucking relief, making the blasted agony subside until his roaring arousal dominated his body once again. Sansa’s wet kisses up under his ear, her fast breath and eager whimpers as she knelt up with her arms around his neck, her wet cunt inches from his throbbing cock, just heightened that feeling twice over.

Seven hells, how was it even possible to be so bloody aroused? He heard himself moan as she let her cunt slide wetly up and down the underside of his rock-hard shaft, shivering in pleasure as she did so, sighing and moaning into their kiss as she used his cock to caress her nub. It reminded him so bloody much of their first time together at the mountain inn, working like fuck for him as well, her preference for rubbing him through their clothes, straddling him, all ringing of those early days of his aching want for her. He fucking loved it, and he bloody well loved _her._

He groaned breathlessly against her lips as the head of him was caressed by her wetness, his frustration kissed away, building up his pleasure, making him fold his arms around her and press her towards him as she stroked his mismatched cheeks. So much tenderness and amazing love in her eyes, radiating out of her, making all he felt for her soar higher than he`d thought possible in return. Kissing her with all his being and feeling how her arms held him tight in return, her hand caressing his back. Creating a raw, sore feeling of utter vulnerability high in his chest.

And then they bloody well started playing Florian and Jonquil downstairs. 

“Fucking hell,” he muttered into her mouth, the both of them stiffening.

“You always wanted me to sing it for you,” Sansa whispered back, kissing him softly before looking directly into his frayed soul again. “Remember?”

“I remember, Little Bird,” he murmured hoarsely back. “You gave me the Mother’s Hymn instead.”

“No,” Sansa replied. “You _took_ the Mother’s Hymn, Sandor. By knifepoint. I will _give_ you Florian and Jonquil.” And then, to his utter astonishment, she just opened her pretty mouth and simply… _sang_ for him. Soft and sweet and filled with pure fucking love and tenderness. 

_Between green leaves and morning haze…_ seven fucking save him… _a pool was gently glittering, beckoning his gaze…_ Sansa’s eyes were locked to his as she lowered her hips down on him and started moving them in slow circles, her entrance caressing him heatedly as the whole bloody stew of sensations in Sandor spread into every corner of him. _Seeing the maiden beauty bathing there caressed by early light…_ Filling him completely, overwhelmingly. _Her long hair loose, her skin so soft, her smile so very bright…_

Sandor groaned desperately. _Her playful dance she did with care as her naked maiden sisters were…_ “Sansa…” he gasped raggedly, as he took hold of his aching manhood to steady it. “It has to hurt more this way… oh fuck… please…” But she just smiled and continued, the head of his cock pressing into her, slowly, agonized pleasure showering him, drowning him. _Laughingly surrounding, the one and only one…_ His desperate moan drowned in the rush to his head, her low voice drowning it all, her blue eyes holding him like he was worth all the world to her. 

But of course she hurt, he felt how the rest of her maidenhead started to yield, her voice faltered and she stopped moving her hips, closing her eyes as she screwed up her face, her song dwindling into a low whimper as she gritted her teeth and pressed herself down on his shaft. Sandor groaned helplessly as he felt her tear for real around him, pleasure flooding him as she gasped in pain, the tears she blinked away making him feel an utter bastard misplaced in fucking heaven. 

Meeting his gaze again, breathing shallowly, she started singing once more, shakily, picking up in the third verse and softening her voice as her body adjusted around him… _as Florian would step forward in his armour made of motley…_ Sandor felt horrible for struggling not to thrust into her, forcing himself not to move a body that roared in pleasure as her warm, wet, nearly too tight pressure engulfed him, sinking down on him slowly, sending lightning bolts of bliss down his legs, up to his chest, down to his fingers. _His eyes on his aching heart’s desire, drinking in her beauty…_ Couldn`t be more appropriate, now could it? And she`d said she loved him… how the hell did you say such a thing in return?

He held her tight towards him and she clung to him, her breath caressing his ear as she sang him the verse where Jonquil recognized Florian the Fool. His own pleasure surged sky high with the strange mix of the bloody amazing sensation of his cock _finally_ inside her tight warmth, her silken skin and delicious teats pressed against his chest as he held her with his sword arm from going lower just yet. Her voice singing her love for him into his ear, giving him all the acceptance and sweet fucking care he`d ever wanted. _As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well._ Bugger him if that wasn`t true with all men, himself included… but fuck, this felt so bloody good. Her giving herself, her body, her love to him like this a sweet relief he`d never quite understood before.

And so they sat, quietly, gently, cheek against cheek, holding each other in a tight embrace in the flickering light of the candles, Sandor vibrating in withheld pleasure, Sansa slowly melting up against him as she sang to him in her soft voice of knights and fair maids. 

_Her laughter was of silver made, her gaze of purest gold,  
and Florian wanted nothing more than the story yet untold._

_But Florian was homely and far from nobly born,  
whilst Jonquil’s birth was all too high her beauty not outshone._

_Still he braved her laughter, her smiles and gentle gaze,  
and the glitter as her eyes met his with moonlight on her face._

She started moving, a tiny motion that felt like so much more as Sandor’s body responded hard, her breath coming faster against his ear when she breathed between the lines of her song. His own ragged exhales sounding loud in comparison, but she _was_ relaxing, _and_ moving, and seven bleeding hells she _sighed_ in fucking pleasure as he stirred underneath her.

“Oh, fuck… my Little Bird… Gods, this feels so bloody good…” he whispered breathlessly between verses as she rolled her hips tentatively up against his stomach, her inner walls tightening with the motion. 

She lifted her face and drowned him in her Tully-blue gaze, kissing Sandor softly where it fit in with her song, until she sang against his lips, her voice coloured by growing pleasure as she rocked slowly back and forth, creating flowing waves of blissful sparks raining through him. He shifted her arse slightly on his arm as the song neared its final verse, and feeling that she at last was ready for being moved a bit more, Sandor forced his shield-arm to twist enough to edge his hand in between them. He parted her slick folds so her nub got full friction as he tensed the muscles in his stomach and pressed her towards him, hoping she would like it. 

And then she moaned. _While_ he fucked her. Soft and sweet, shifting so one arm held onto him over his shoulder and her other hand stroked up his neck to comb into his hair. _All men are knights and all men are fools, so was Jonquil’s sad reply,_ Sansa sang, exhaling sharply at the end of the sentence as he thrust slowly into her, his own pleasure magnifying by ten as they rocked gently in pace with her song. _Her eyes so large and filled with tears, apple blossoms landing in her hair._

Sandor was fucking shaking in pleasure, surging on the love in her eyes, groaning raggedly as her lips brushed his scarred mouth and her hips pressed her slowly deeper down on him. _At least where love and women are concerned… that similarity you all have earned, when you lay your hearts at our feet._ Fuck, he was lost. In her, in this, floating on a high of pleasure and bloody tenderness that just kept on building higher and higher. 

Sansa’s voice had taken on a breathless quality that didn`t do anything to calm him down, grinding her nub against the lower part of his stomach when he started moving slowly in and out of her as he tightened his grip gently around her arse. _A giant slain would never pay for the loss of half her soul._ Oh, seven hells he was nearing, and fuck him he loved her so much. _Her own life spared would never give, her back the blessed warmth of being whole._

Why the hell couldn`t he just tell her? _And so the tale there ended, with the fair lady on her knees,_ Sansa sang huskily, her eyes locked to his, watching his face as it contracted in agonized pleasure, his shaky moans impossible to strangle as her hand over his shoulder slid up to cup his scarred cheek when the last line left her mouth. _Before the body of her only love, pink blossoms falling in her grief._

“Sansa, please… I can`t hold back anymore,” he groaned desperately, so fucking dazed by pleasure that he couldn`t even slow down, increasing the pace slightly instead as his release built hot and high.

“Just let go,” she whispered breathlessly. “You`ve been as gentle with me as you`ve always been.” She smiled fondly at him as he moaned helplessly and tightened his hand in her hair, feeling his whole body tense as the wave was about to break. “I can take some pain for you, as you have done for me… just… peak, _my love._ ” 

And he peaked, so fucking unbelievably high, sheathing himself deep inside her on pure fucking instinct as everything came crashing down, years of longing, weeks of waiting and teasing, all his love for her, all tonight’s expectations and pleasure howling inside him, finally coming to a closure. He crushed her towards him and felt her bite down hard on his neck as she met his every thrust tight and fast. The pulsing, prickling high of his release raging when he pushed her down on him desperately and pressed his hips up hard between her thighs, spilling his seed deep into her tight warm cunt. The thought of _that_ flinging him even higher as he moaned her name on ragged exhales, hitting all the seven heavens at the same time, trapping him in ecstasy, making him lose it completely.

Sandor couldn`t get air down in his lungs at all, couldn`t hold onto her or even speak as the final notes from downstairs died out. Just buried his face in her neck and tried to get a grip with her arms around him, his cock softening inside her. _My love._ Some other song started up, but Sandor couldn`t have cared less for the life of him.

Sansa started stroking his hair and kissed his temple, before raising her body off him, cupping his cheeks and kissing his mouth before she went in search of water and cloth. The obvious stiffness in the way she moved made him feel guilty, but that was just what to expect, wasn`t it? She`d barely bled – he managed to comprehend that much at least. Looking down revealed just a few faint traces of pink mixed in with his seed, the only evidence of him breaking her precious maidenhead. Seven hells… he`d just fucked Sansa Stark! 

He grinned at her as she washed between her legs, her bright smile in return under the long tresses of tousled auburn hair adding to the bloody happiness that tumbled around in his chest, despite the annoying fact that the burning pain of his side started to throb through the aftermath. His leg echoed it, but he`d at least managed to keep his arm in check, so that was bloody something, but he still needed help lying down again after cleaning himself up.

And then he had her in his arms once more, snuggling close to him, naked and beautiful under the covers. They just lay looking at each other for some time, her eyes so fucking deep blue that the ocean could go bugger itself, the dazed, sated feeling of the hazy aftermath still hugging him like a blanket. 

She started stroking his back, and he sighed deeply in fucking satisfaction, making her smile at him, 

“Sansa, who was the Hound to you?” he murmured before thinking, surprising himself as much as her..

She looked at him, puzzled, the way she stroked his hair away from the good side of his face, placing it behind his ear and letting her fingertips caress him down his jaw line feeling so fucking tender as she answered. “You, of course.”

“Yes, but… you wouldn`t even look at me… you were frightened fucking shitless of me… I just wondered what the Hound was to you in King’s Landing…” he muttered, touching her face in return, his fingers stroking her silken cheek.

She looked searchingly at him. “You scared me, and I thought you awful a lot of the time because of your bitter, blunt words. You were so angry...” Her fingertips traced his lips, caressing the numb scarring. “But, you were the one I compared others to, you were the one who meant a twisted kind of safety.” She kissed him softly as her fingertips stroked under his chin and up to his neck, making goose-bumps prickle over his skin before she continued. “And when you were gone, I wished you back again, missed your harsh advice, missed your presence. I even made up a kiss,” she said, grinning ruefully, something girlish in the way she looked at him.

“You did? With me?” he rasped, surprised.

She laughed, embarrassed, and hid her face in his neck. “Yes, with _you_. I was even kind of proud that I`d kissed the Hound. I… it didn`t dawn on me that it was just something I`d imagined to… pretty things up… until we were more or less through the mountains from the Vale. That`s why I braided Stranger by the way. I was so sad because the kiss wasn`t true, and so, as I couldn`t make myself face you, I braved _the Stranger_ instead…”

Sandor couldn`t help himself and laughed hoarsely at her, and she laughed with him with her arms around him. “Bugger me, Sansa. What the hell is wrong with that horse around you? And let me guess, I ‘kissed’ you the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, didn`t I?” She nodded against his skin. “I fucking _knew_ something was wrong with that picture since you flaming… ended up being turned on by it. Seven save me…you crazy Bird!” 

He forced her face up from his neck, her cheeks were red but she smiled, a soft curve of those full lips. Sandor remembered bloody well how it had felt wondering about the sensation of them pressed against his own scarred mouth… and he _had_ nearly kissed her that green night, but he`d wanted her kiss, not her closed eyes. 

“Maybe not _that_ crazy…” he muttered. “I wanted to kiss you, but… I knew you didn`t want me to... you wanted a chivalrous knight in shiny armour, didn`t you? Not a pissing drunk and blood-spattered dog snarling at you…” Sansa just smiled sadly at him. “But I wanted _something_ from you before I left, at least.”

“So you took the song,” she whispered. “When what you needed was comfort.”

“Oh, seven hells – shut the fuck up, woman…” he grumbled, feeling awkward beyond reason. “Want me to prance around in jewelled armour throwing bloody flowers to the people as well?”

“No,” Sansa smiled. “I want you rough and scarred, moaning my name as you fuck me,” she murmured as she kissed him, making echoes of pleasure slam through him.

“You liked that, did you?” he murmured back, instantly distracted.

“ _Yes,_ it felt so incredibly good right before you peaked. And… how was it for you? Did I… do it right?” she asked, smiling hesitantly with something vulnerable in her eyes for some reason.

“Losing my wits in pleasure as you were riding me wasn`t clear enough for you?” Sandor rasped, grinning back at her as her smile turned triumphant. “You were fucking amazing, Little Bird. You`re still the best fuck I`ve ever had, and I`ve had a few,” he murmured, kissing away her exasperated laugh. 

“Mongrel,” she grinned against his lips, making him chuckle at her before quieting down, stroking auburn locks out of her face.

“You`re the fucking best I`ve ever had on any level, actually,” Sandor rasped softly, and then took a deep breath as he held her hard against him so she couldn`t look at him, fucking unable to face her when he found his balls at last in the form of two hoarse words. “My love.”


	31. How to love a dog and bet with a lion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks - I`m sorry for the delay. 
> 
> Both my pc and my hubby's computer broke down of different reasons at the same time, taking our extern hard-disk with them. So, as we at least have managed to save all the photos of our children from baby-stage and up, re-writing this chapter about three times suddenly seems worth it...
> 
> Thank you so much for your storm of reviews on ch 30 - I`ll get back to answering them now that I actually can again. Please know how grateful I am for your love and enthusiasm for this story, it`s what fuels it on <3 <3 <3
> 
> Edit: Lady TP - thank you so much for your effort, giving me all those wonderful comments - I will go though and reply to them all, just please give me some time ;-) <3 <3 <3

Sansa woke to Willow’s knocks on the door and entrance into the dark room like she always did, and lay listening to the girl’s quiet movements as she put her tray on the table and opened the shutters to let in the first indigo shades of light – as was her habit. The quite _unusual_ thing about the whole situation was that Sandor didn`t even stir. For the first time since he`d started coming around from his injuries, he wasn`t instantly alert when something changed around him, didn`t yawn and stretch his powerful arms at the first quiet knock on the door. He just lay on his stomach beside her with his arms cradling the pillow he more or less had buried his face in and slept on. And for some reason, lying beside him and listening to his deep, calm breathing made it feel so precious to her, like he`d finally started to truly relax around her.

She waved Willow over with her finger across her lips before the girl could start lighting candles. “Please, could you tell Jaime to… find a good reason for me to sleep a bit longer today?” she whispered to the girl, not even bothering to conceal it.

Willow just grinned in return and bobbed her insanely clumsy curtsy before leaving the room on quiet feet, making Sansa sigh inwardly and mentally note down to remember to teach her maid to curtsy properly if she was going to come with her to Riverrun. But so far, Willow had turned out to be the perfect maid in all other areas, so Sansa could live with a bad curtsy if it came to that.

Turning carefully towards Sandor, she lay looking at him as the light changed slowly, feeling her love for him expand until she thought she would burst from sheer happiness. Gods, it had been good yesterday. She`d known both that he would be gentle with her and that it would hurt somewhat, but still… Sandor’s intense pleasure when she had pressed herself down on him, the way he`d looked, sounded, _felt_ when they`d moved together, how he`d helplessly moaned her name as his manhood pulsed inside her… It _had_ hurt both when he broke the rest of her maidenhead and when he`d taken her fully as he released, but the stabs of pain had been diminished by the thrill it`d been to make him completely unravel in her arms like that.

Sandor had been sated before when they were only playing, but there had been an utter satisfaction in his eyes and a… calmness to him afterwards that made Sansa suspect that he had needs that had been put aside for her sake for quite some time. And he`d called her ‘my love’ – repeated her words back to her… She hadn`t had any plans of pushing him on the matter, but she`d said it without thinking in that moment of shared pleasure and tenderness, heard her declaration of love pass her lips as she saw it mirrored in his eyes. That he would say it back, though…

He`d held her so hard against him as his harsh voice had called her such a sweet thing, giving Sansa a clear feeling that she needed to tread carefully so as not to set off all his defences in one go. So she`d just let him crush her in an embrace and held him hard in return as she echoed the two words yet again in a whisper into his hair as ‘I love you’ would clearly have been to much, feeling his kiss on her neck and his heart beating hard in his chest as they just lay there, loving each other, until sleep found them.

Sansa had been taught early on to please her future husband; love and cherish a lord with a status worthy of her hand; to be a good and dutiful wife. It had always had a kind of practicality about it, now she thought of it, both from her mother and her septa. It was Sansa herself who had romanticized it all even though her mother had encouraged it, letting her be caught up in her songs so she wouldn`t need to face reality just yet… 

Septa Mordane had taught her proper ladylike behaviour and the importance of perfect courtesy to be the perfect lady wife. From a woman who knew nothing of being _anyone’s_ wife… Her mother had smiled kindly at her and reminded her that a highborn maid could not choose her husband, but she would do her duty and learn to love him nonetheless. As if love and duty were the same thing. Catelyn Stark had loved her children with all her heart, and had imparted what a wonderful part of marriage _motherhood_ was with true enthusiasm. Of what happened between the sheets to _make_ those babies there had been precious little talk, however. Before King’s Landing Sansa had merely known that she would still be a maid when her marriage was consummated, that she would bleed like the good little lady she was and that it would hurt a bit. But, she would be a good girl and please her lord husband, and above all _not_ make a fuss. 

She could have been married away to a fat old lord, who would spread her legs and take her maidenhead without any concern for her – against her wishes, even. _Tyrion_ could have done the exact same thing, for that matter… how strange that the vows of marriage silently included a husband’s right to rape his wife if he wanted, her being barely out of childhood or not. It felt even stranger that her own caring and loving mother _knew_ this, but that custom demanded her to prepare her child as best she could… so that that girl ended up thinking it completely natural… a duty. Just a part of life.

By the Mother, she was glad she`d given her maidenhead to a man of her own choosing, a man she was helplessly in love with, who even looked like a statue of the Warrior. She`d been so unbelievably aroused before he`d _asked_ for her permission, keeping his promise. And then he`d let her do it as she wanted, given her time and let her find out how nice it felt when he was finally inside her, having her aching for more before he released so intensely. Gods, she loved him.

After having been forced into so many roles, both the more unconscious and the more clearly defined ones, having had control of her own life taken so completely away from her – she seemed to have developed an intense need to fend for herself, a claustrophobia, really, for feeling trapped again. But somehow that felt... healthy. Like she`d found her own boundaries. Finally.

The last weeks had been educational in the sense of empowerment in other areas as well, to see the worth in the lessons life had taught her, how they had made her stronger, more competent… and that it was possible to both combine and separate her different roles. It actually frightened her to think about how diffuse the walls between Sansa and Alayne had become, how unconsciously _tired_ she`d been so young, of fear and sorrow – of powerlessness – to just give herself up like that. 

Playing parts was one thing, but understanding the mechanics of human nature was actually very interesting, up until the point where you could no longer separate yourself from the role… Alayne had taught her the bastard life, though – to stand up for herself, to work hard and achieve what she wanted, to love life once more. For that Sansa _chose_ to be grateful. There were too many regrets in her life to make Alayne one of them. And now she was herself again, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. It felt… liberating.

She stroked Sandor’s hair gently out of his face, making him turn his head a bit more towards her in his sleep, and then just lay beside him and watched him as the twilight slowly lightened up the room. Sandor slept with the unburnt side of his face turned up, black hair sliding over his neck and onto his pillow. Sansa couldn`t help but admire him, his massive shoulders, the way his heavy muscles were emphasized by him lying with his arms forwards like that, his shield arm still bandaged like his leg, but his sword arm was looking like a work of art in the grey light of the coming dawn. 

The way those muscular arms framed his harsh features made him seem dangerous even in sleep, his black hair, hooked nose and heavy black brow adding a harshness to his appearance in their own, his scars completing the face of a man you simply did not want to pick a fight with. But his equally black eyelashes rested on his good cheek, and his brow wasn`t furrowed in anger. He seemed at peace, calm. And to Sansa, he was beautiful.

She pushed the covers carefully down to his waist and stroked her fingertips up his spine. The massive muscles on each side dominated his lower back, his skin feeling so soft between the more prominent scars crossing it as she caressed him up between his heavily muscled shoulder blades. Sandor sighed deeply and stirred, his breathing changing enough for her to know he was awake, but didn`t open his eyes or move as she continued to caress his back, still enthralled that this large, violent brute of a man actually found it pleasant to be touched and caressed. Liked it, even. It had taken time, though… to get him this… domesticated. 

Thinking back on her sweet childhood with all its love and lack of worries as the inn started to come to life beyond the door, Sansa wondered yet again what Sandor had lived through to need so many weeks just to get used to being touched with care. If _she_ felt the last years had formed her like the passage of water over limestone, then Sandor’s _life_ had chiselled him out in granite. He still felt closed on so many levels, and she still didn`t know much about his life from before she had been in it, but he had let her into his heart and he had called her his love, and Sansa felt utterly privileged to receive something so hard for him to give, think of… _handle._

She watched him as he let her trail her nails up his neck, a bit horrified at the bruise her teeth had left there, but smiled when goose-bumps prickled over his arms and down his back as she caressed him, her nails combing into his hair, trailing his scalp until he finally stirred properly – and stretched those amazing arms as he yawned. His powerful shoulders tensed as he stretched his strong back as well, all heavy and defined muscle without an ounce of fat, before opening his eyes and looking straight at her.

“Good morning,” Sansa smiled, feeling her stomach flutter like the maids from the stories looking upon the knight come to their rescue. 

“Bugger me if it isn`t,” he murmured sleepily in return, settling down on his pillow again and resting his scarred cheek on his sword arm. He lay there just studying her for a while, the light of day reflected in those deep grey eyes, shining dully in his hair and caressing his skin, making Sansa drink him in, overwhelmingly in love with him. 

“What are you looking all flushed about?” he muttered, when she just continued to look at him, enthralled.

“I… it`s just… I think you`re so beautiful,” she blurted, breaking the magic moment to pieces, and instantly feeling like slapping herself for her own idiocy. Really, Sandor and what he thought to be empty flattery did _no_ t go well together, what a brilliant way to ruin the day before it had begun.

Sandor lifted his head and looked incredulously at her for half a heartbeat before he simply laughed hoarsely straight in her face. “Fucking hell, Sansa,” he rasped mockingly before something vicious entered his tone. “Woke up from your dream and took a look at what you fucked last night, did you? And decided to pretty things up again?”

“No!” she replied, horrified at the turn of events, more or less wringing her hands. “I`m sorry for… but you _know_ it was not the way I meant it. Why would you even _say_ such a thing?”

“Because I bloody well hate your chirping and thought you done with it,” Sandor spat in return, getting onto his side and starting to push himself up in that laborious manner that shouted he was in no way healed yet. Not even bothering to look at her as the noise from the hallway drifted in, the sounds of multiple boots stomping past their door telling clearly that they should have been out of bed by now.

Sansa felt frustration fill her, sitting up in bed to face him as she concluded that the way he`d always been able to flash his temper and vicious streak to twist the conversation when they`d been in King’s Landing, was _not_ something she would let run her over now. “And I thought you done pushing me away like an annoying little girl,” she responded. “I thought you done thinking me stupid and thought you`d actually gained some respect for me.”

Sandor turned towards her with those piercing grey eyes and measured her flustered state. “Well, you`re half my age, aren`t you? And when you talk shit in addition, you can`t fucking expect me to bow left and right to you,” he said angrily, making Sansa’s growing irritation flare into cold rage.

“I`m not expecting you to bow to me, I`m expecting you to treat me with respect,” she bit off. “And why in the heavens’ name _can`t_ I be allowed to think you`re beautiful? You`re… you`re…” _Mine. My love. The man I chose._

“Because I`m the ugliest man you`ll ever come across!” Sandor broke in in a low growl. “I make Boros Blount look like a fair maid, so just fucking accept it!”

Sansa heard herself laugh as incredulously as he had. “You`re so obsessed with the scars on your face that you really can`t see beyond them, can you?” she threw at him. “Boros Blount looked like a toad without stripes and a painted toad with them. _You`re_ the tiger. And I`m your woman so I`m entitled to think you`re beautiful even if you are a viciously effective predator with some scars into the bargain,” she finished heatedly, glad that the noise from outside the door concealed their voices.

Sandor looked at her as if she`d gone mad. “What the hell are you talking about? Fell out of bed and broke your head? _Tiger?_ I`m a fucking dog!”

Sansa felt how her cheeks turned crimson, but continued to stare stubbornly at him while clutching her sheets to her chest. “It was you who said it! That… well, that Blount looked like a toad,” she said, hearing how petulant she sounded.

Sandor looked like he couldn`t decide if he was amused or furious. “Bet I did,” he grumbled in return after a long pause. “It`s the fucking truth… but how in the seven hells did that make me a tiger, you insane bird?”

Sansa felt how her anger melted away into ruefulness. “It was just something you said to comfort me once, I suppose… you said ‘paint stripes on a toad and it doesn`t make him a tiger’… regarding, you know… Blount. And, you were drunk, so…”

Sandor grinned wryly at her from the other side of the bed. “…that made me a bloody beautiful tiger…”

“No, you know what I meant!” she grinned back at him.

“I have not the faintest idea of what you meant, but I bloody well heard you say you were my woman,” Sandor rasped in a low voice, looking so utterly attractive sitting like that with his upper body bare and the sheets low around his hips that Sansa felt pure desire fill her stomach and spread directly down between her legs.

“Yes,” she murmured, moving over towards him and watching how the vein in his neck started to throb faster, his hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at her, grabbed her wrist and dragged her towards him. “And you are my man.”

“You`ve got over a hundred _men_ right here at this inn,” Sandor replied as her fingertips stroked carefully up his still green and yellow side. “You`ve even got a husband, now,” he added as she opened her mouth to speak, the harshness in his voice somehow making him sound vulnerable.

She didn`t know what to reply, she couldn`t have married Sandor even if her marriage to Tyrion could have been annulled. This way, they were free to be with each other, at least… free of another husband who would demand her doing her wifely duty every night. Gods help her, Sandor would have gone insane with frustration and likely beaten his supposed lord bloody even if _she_ could manage to hold onto the pretence! Why would he start on this now? Unless… she suddenly remembered his murmur from the tent about her being someone _else’s_ wife if he pushed his finger deeper into her.

“Would you really have wanted me as your wife?” she whispered, kissing his collarbone softly, feeling his hair brush her shoulders as he leant in, his arms folding around her.

“I`m not a fucking idiot, Little Bird,” he muttered, tightening his grip around her, “I learned a long time ago not to wish for impossibilities.”

His hoarse voice held such finality on the matter that Sansa swallowed further attempts to talk about it _that_ way. Just gave him open-mouthed kisses up the cool skin of his neck and watched as his arousal became evident under the sheets, making her instantly ache for him, the exciting thought that there were no boundaries, not even her own insecurity, to hold them back, flinging her into hot and heavy arousal.

“Well, at least there`s no one else to receive my wifely duty,” she murmured slightly breathlessly, trying to comfort him and feeling a strange need to defend herself at the same time.

“I don`t want your fucking duty. I want your lust and passion,” he muttered back, his breathing already ragged as he pressed her gently against him, kissing her mouth heatedly.

Sansa didn`t quite know if she was incredulous all over or not. “You`re so strange. You want my _want_ for you, but I`m not allowed to think you beautiful?” she murmured against his scarred lips, making him break the kiss roughly.

“Let it be, for fuck’s sake, it`s pure fucking horseshit and you know it,” he rasped irritably, pushing her almost angrily down on the bed as his mouth started to twitch.

“Not to me!” she more or less growled right back, meeting his furious gaze, feeling his cock hard against her thigh, anger and desire mixing together.

“Shut, _the fuck,_ up,” he rasped menacingly, baring his teeth at her, _not_ lying down beside her. 

“Why? I wont tell Jaime, if that`s what you`re afraid of,” she said angrily in return.

“Bugger off with that piss, _seven_ hells, Sansa. It`s because it would`ve been fucking nice to be good enough for you just the way I am. I bloody well thought it for a while until you started dragging me into one of your fucking stories, prettying me up with some sparkling magic,” he snarled bitterly.

“That ‘magic’ is called love, you… brutish…” she flung her hands in the air in exasperation. “It`s _you_ that`s obsessed with pretty things! Admit it, you didn`t like _me_ at all in King’s Landing, you just thought my face beautiful and liked red hair, didn`t you? Then, all you ever said to me was that I was either stupid or pretty or both!”

That got his cock down. He just stared at her. 

“What in the name of the heavens made you ride to my aid in the Vale, really? When I was just a dim-witted redhead to you. You must put a lot of stock in a beautiful face!” she continued, to her horror hearing how her voice had turned bitter, feeling the sudden soreness in her throat. 

“I didn`t… _fuck_ …” he started, but Sansa interrupted him as it all poured out of her.

“I longed for you. Dreamt of you. I even prayed for you! Sincerely! Not for your _scars_ to go away, but for the Mother to gentle that… that _frightening_ rage you carried around inside you. Because _that_ was what made me so scared of you – not your face!” Her voice had turned thick with tears. “And to _me_ you`re beautiful, because I _love_ you. So don`t come here making something ugly of it!”

He looked at her transfixed, his mouth twitching repeatedly, his whole body tense as he leant over her, his free hand clenching and unclenching, so many emotions roiling in his grey eyes that Sansa for a moment was afraid of what she`d unleashed. 

“I do like red hair,” he said flatly after a long moment. “I do think you`re pretty, now as then. I _did_ think you stupid at the time. So… all fucking true.” He nailed her to the mattress with his gaze. “But I came for you on the worst night of my life, even though I fucked it up, and I protected your sister, and I lay on my deathbed raving about you, cursing myself for holding onto life later on, but _still_ couldn`t fucking get you out of my head. Ask Elder Brother if you like. _That`s_ why I rode to your aid. I`m no fucking knight in shining armour, rescuing damsels in distress left, right and centre, I only wanted _you_ safe. Pure and hellishly selfish behaviour because you are my Little Bird, so…” he trailed off in his hoarse rasp, his brow furrowed in anger, his eyes grey storm-clouds: dark and threatening.

Sansa didn`t know what to reply, and he didn`t move away, just sat over her, leaning on his sword arm, his large, muscular frame and dark expression making him look so intimidating that Sansa wondered for a moment why she wasn`t petrified. The silence stretched out between them as she tried to collect her thoughts, building until it felt completely unbearable, unnerving enough to make her feel like apologizing just to make it stop. 

She raised her hand instead, and caressed the scarred flesh of his shield arm, following the slick skin and ridges up to where the bandage started, looking enthralled at how his hand relaxed slightly instead of pulling back from her. “You couldn`t get me out of your head?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he replied, still sounding hard as flint.

“Because I was _your_ Little Bird? Not just a stupid little bird?” Sansa continued, her fingertips wandering down again and stroking lightly over his large hand, following thin silver scars, caressing his fingers.

“Yes,” Sandor answered, something raw in his voice.

“So… you were… in love with me? In King’s Landing?” The hope in her voice was all too obvious, but that was the only conclusion she could draw. 

Sandor sighed deeply. “Seven hells… doing my part, fuck me… _Yes._ In a way.”

“In a way?” Sansa replied questioningly, making Sandor grimace.

“I just… you were a fucking child, Sansa. Teats and hips alone doesn`t make you a woman, only _almost_ …” he muttered, spreading his fingers when she stroked her own between them. “And you annoyed the shit out of me, but… you also reminded me of what a terrorizing hell it is to be all alone with nowhere to hide. _Somebody_ needed to smack some sense into you, better it be me than Joff armed with a crossbow and two mailed toads.” 

She smiled at how he twisted what he was saying to avoid the real topic, careful to keep her eyes on their hands. “So why couldn`t you get me out of your head, then? If I was only a child to you,” she asked down at what she was doing. “I was a woman flowered, you know, even if you found me stupid.”

She could practically _see_ him half-grin wryly at her in return, and heard it in his voice when he answered. “Believe me, I knew that. I wanted you and for some bloody absurd reason I _did_ like you… you were so fucking _decent_ up against the rest of those perfumed fuckers… _even_ if you were hellishly irritating, but… I can`t explain it, you were a child to me. And you were so bloody scared of me that you couldn`t look me in the face for fuck’s sake, so scared that you couldn`t even give me a flaming _song_ of your own free will... So, as you certainly didn`t want _me_ at the time… I just… ah bloody hell, I ended up… wanting you to grow older,” he muttered at the end.

“You waited for me to grow older, or you wished me older _then?_ ” Sansa said carefully, surprised at all that had gone through his head at the time, feeling she was walking a thin line now as she was bound to slam up against his anger any moment, but still simply _needing_ to know.

“Might have… ah, fuck it… why the hell do you want to know?” he answered irritably.

This time Sansa couldn`t avoid looking up at him, a wide grin spreading on her face despite her every intention. “When?”

He met her gaze, his irritation obviously sliding off until there was something rueful about the whole man. “When I stroked myself to release thinking about you,” he answered gruffly. “Or when paying redheaded whores to shut up so I could imagine they were you as I fucked them.”

She laughed at him in exasperation and wrapped her arms around his neck, dragging him down towards her. “Gods, you`re _such_ a romantic, Sandor,” she grinned. 

“I`ll order that jewelled armour, Little Bird – and you`ll pay for it, believe me,” he replied in mock warning, letting himself be pulled into an embrace. 

“I think you`ll need a bunch of flowers too, my beloved brute, because you`ve just admitted to making up stories in your head, making me old enough to fit into your fantasies,” she grinned and kissed him as he made a strangled sound of pure outrage. “You were just like me!”

He groaned between kisses as she dragged the covers aside, slipping in next to him still naked, finding that he`d managed to stir himself up with his own thoughts, his cock hot and hard against her legs as she embraced him. “But you are a hell of a lot better in reality than you were in my fantasies,” he panted, kissing her hungrily as he started to stroke his cock up against her mound, making her simmering lust flare into aching need.

“So are you,” she half-moaned back as the head of him rubbed rhythmically against her nub, making him exhale raggedly, groaning as he stroked himself faster, his bandaged arm tightening around her. “Wait… did you fantasize about me on the _Quiet Isle_ as well?” she whispered raggedly as she watched the thrilling sight of his hand around his cock, the confident way he gave himself pleasure.

“I have my needs, don`t I?” he murmured breathlessly, watching her watching him, and moaned softly as her hands stroked over his body, over that amazing broad back and down to his muscular bottom, kissing her hungrily.

“Sandor! That`s supposed to be a holy place!” she replied, equally out of breath, grinning into their kiss, licking him and sliding her tongue against his as she let her hands on his bottom press him towards her, making him grunt in pleasure and his hips start to move. 

“What? Did you think stuffing me into a robe would make me pious?” Sandor rasped wryly into her mouth, need and amusement colouring his voice as he fucked into his hand, his pleasure-brought fluid making him slide oh so deliciously back and forth over her nub. “And have you ever thought about how bloody ridiculous a hard cock looks in a blasted dress?”

Sansa laughed out loud and met his mirthful gaze through a curtain of black hair, looking rueful but pulling it all off as if he couldn`t care less. “No, but I can`t even _imagine_ you in a robe...” she grinned, her hips moving in pace with his hand. “So… what eased your ache, then?”

“Thinking of what I wanted to do with you in bed,” he answered softly, kissing her hungrily, both of them obviously getting off on the topic as Sansa felt her arousal fly sky-high side by side with his, the pleasure he sent tumbling through her suddenly reaching another level. “Out of it as well, for that matter.”

“While you fucked into your hand?” she whispered into their kiss, still embarrassed about saying such words out loud, even when moving up against him in aching need, feeling herself go slick between her legs at the thought.

“Imagining it was your cunt, and that you _wanted_ to be with me, that you looked at me with your legs spread, moaned for me as my cock slid into you, just like…” he whispered hoarsely back, exhaling shakily as she moaned at what he was telling her and spread her legs for him, laying her thigh over his hip, careful of his side, as her own hips moved in need. His expression turned nearly anguished as he steered his cock to rest against her entrance, groaning as he felt how wet she was for him.

“You have it now?” she breathed, looking him straight into his eyes, one arm hooked around his neck, the other stroking his hair away from his face, thumb caressing his cheek.

“It can`t flaming compare, Little Bird, you`re everything and so much fucking more than I ever dreamt of,” he whispered raggedly, stroking himself in slow movements in pace with her hips, letting the head of his cock slide wetly from her entrance and up over her nub with each pleasurable stroke of his hand. _So you had dreams once?_ “I thought you would be so bloody courteous that I wouldn`t be able to get a sound out of you without you adding some title to it,” he continued wryly. “Instead, you`re so fucking passionate… “

Sansa smiled at him and kissed him softly, swallowing her instant need to shower him in exclamations of love, as she was fairly sure he`d already been pushed as far as he could go on the matter today. She tilted her hips so the next slide pressed hard against her entrance instead, making Sandor breathe heavily, his lips parting and his mouth half-opening so she could see his teeth. It felt so good to make him groan desperately when she moved up against him in aching need, feeling his cock push into her as she rolled her hips down on him, creating such a wonderful surge of pleasure that they both moaned, kissing each other with renewed fervour.

“Touch yourself,” he more or less gasped against her lips as he let go of his cock to cup her breast, caressing her nipple while thrusting into her with small movements of his hips, too shallow to hurt, the fulfilling _pressing_ feeling of him inside her making hot stabs of pleasure rain through her entire body.

She edged her hand down her stomach, and felt the hair around his cock brush against her knuckles rhythmically as her fingertips touched her nub – and arched in pleasure as his cock slid a bit further into her at the same time, whimpering as all the sensations blended together to a storm of this new heavy prickling want inside her, building until she heard herself moan loud and clear on top of Sandor’s ragged groan despite the need to be quiet.

Sandor seemed to completely lose it in response to her obvious pleasure, grey eyes hazy with need meeting hers as he turned them both roughly onto his back and gasped shakily as she slid further down on him even though twisting like that must have hurt, kissing her with all the love she knew he had for her and started thrusting deeper into her with his arms hard around her. It stung quite badly, but Sansa gritted her teeth and studied his face with rapt attention, watching his pleasure build until it started resonating inside her as well. 

Sandor was panting as he fucked her, a faint shine of sweat breaking out on his skin as he grabbed her hips and tilted his own up as he raised his knees, sheathing himself fully in her. His eyes closed in pleasure and his mouth was seeking hers hungrily even though his lips curled back so she felt his teeth against her lips as he pressed her hard down on him and fucked into her with firm thrusts, groaning softly for every uneven exhale. But his cock hit something deep and vulnerable inside her, pain blooming sharply whenever he was deepest. She tried to relax and endure it for his sake as she`d done when he released yesterday, but a thin sound ended up escaping her lips as she simply couldn`t take anymore, her breath stopping as the muscles in her stomach tightened protectively. 

Sandor stopped moving instantly and pushed her up from him to look searchingly at her.

“Hurts,” she whispered, mortified at not managing to hold it in when it gave him such pleasure – wanting him to release so she could watch him soar… and so it wouldn`t last so long, she was ashamed to admit to herself.

“Fuck, I`m sorry, Little Bird,” Sandor rasped quietly and stroked her hair, still breathing hard. “Forgot myself, you`re just too bloody delicious,” he added in an anguished mix of need and regret, his cock twitching inside her. 

He let his long legs down on the mattress, lessening the pressure on her, and let go of her hips, starting to stroke her back instead. With the other hand he let his strong fingers comb into her hair like she so often had done to him, caressing her scalp as he started to kiss her softly. His tongue sliding over her lips and licking the corners of her mouth, returning what he obviously thought felt good when she did it to him, making her sigh in pleasure as she relaxed. He kissed up her jaw-line and sucked on her earlobe, kissing the sensitive spot right beneath her ear, his hand on her back sliding forwards to cup her breast again, gently, lovingly, stirring her up all over again.

Her arousal surged and she even felt a small pang of frustration at the loss of his cock inside her as he lifted her up his body to kiss her breasts, but the feeling of his cockhead teasing her added massively to the new thrill. His mouth around her nipple had her moaning all over again, grazing her gently with his teeth, sucking on her until Sansa pressed his face against her breast and whimpered as her hips started rolling up against him in pure lust. She could feel Sandor’s chest heaving underneath her as she ground her nub against his stomach, the feather-light sensation of his cock between her legs driving her into a frenzy.

He waited her out, though, even if his desire for her seemed to have reached a new level, more or less writhing in need as he groaned deeply around her nipple, his rock-hard cock twitching repeatedly against her until she was so aroused that she didn`t know what to do with herself, either. Cupping his jaw, tilting his face up to kiss him, she moved inch for inch down his magnificent body while folding both arms hard around his broad neck as his hips started moving again. She gasped as the head of him teased her properly, feeling her own wetness make him slide past her entrance and between the cheeks of her bottom, for some reason having her panting even more. But he kept moving away from her when she tried to press herself down on him, until frustration quite simply started vibrating in her on top of her arousal, making her breaking their kiss to look hard at him.

“My needy Little Bird,” he murmured hoarsely at her, something wry entering his tone. “Want me to fuck you better this time?” 

She grinned breathlessly at him. _“Yes.”_

He exhaled sharply and kissed her sweet and deep, pinching her nipple gently as his other hand slid down her back and stroked her _behind_ like his cock had done mere seconds ago, long fingers directing his manhood so the head of him pressed into her entrance. It made her squirm in intense pleasure on top of him, moaning in frustration when he retreated and whimpering in fulfilment as he fucked into her anew, slightly deeper this time. The wet sound of him sliding in and out of her worked oh so very well for her as she felt herself starting to surge on the rapidly building waves of pleasure he created in her for every blessed thrust, careful of not going too deep.

Sandor shifted his grip, pushing his hand in between them and spreading her folds so her nub rubbed against his stomach for every buck of his hips, the way he tightened his muscles for her making her whole body rage in pleasure and need. When he grabbed her bottom and created the perfect extra pressure on her nub as he thrust slightly faster, she found herself moaning desperately into their kiss, longing for just… _more._

“Oh Sandor. This feels so good,” she whispered shakily, making him groan deeply in return, gasping in pleasure as she continued. “I need… a bit… _please._ ”

He grunted as he increased the pace again and she followed, meeting the motion, clinging to him as he held her hard, their strangled noises of pleasure mixing as they rocked nearer and nearer the shimmering release she needed so badly, just… so… frustratingly close and not near enough. Sandor was soon holding back, she could feel it, hear it in his groans, the dazed look in his eyes intoxicating like nothing else, his cock hard and large inside her, and still she needed… 

“More,” she breathed. “Oh, Gods… just a little more.”

He moaned helplessly and thrust deeper, both hands on her bottom rubbing her against him for every heated, rapid, rhythmic buck of his hips, her tight nipples getting friction against his chest. She was so near she could have screamed in frustration but just couldn`t find the _blasted_ edge, dimly being grateful that he didn`t tilt his hips or press her down on him, as she would probably have slapped him for ruining this intense feeling by causing her pain right now. 

“Fuck, Little Bird…” Sandor gasped, his whole body tensing underneath her, but she was too far gone to let him slow down.

“No! Don`t stop fucking me!” she more or less whined back. “I`m so close!”

“Oh, seven bleeding hells,” he groaned and obviously lost control. His hips changed motion as he fucked her fast and heatedly, shifting so his hand could pinch her nipple, his mouth sucking on her lower lip for a moment before his body tensed for true, letting Sansa fuck _him,_ and then his hips lifted them both off the mattress as his release hit him with impressive force. Sansa moaned helplessly with him, bucking her hips desperately to join him, rubbing herself against him as his cock pulsed hard inside her, filling her with his seed, his arm crushing her towards him as he buried his face in her neck, desperately trying to be quiet and failing wonderfully.

He lay panting underneath her, wrapping his arms loosely around her as Sansa’s body howled for a peak that hadn`t come, intense arousal and disappointment swirling in her, her need hammering between her legs even though she felt his cock softening inside her, his seed leaking out of her.

He only used two moments more to collect himself, though, before grabbing her hair and lifting her head to look at her, making her pant wantonly by the strange sensation of him pulling her hair like that, connecting it with pleasure and love somehow. 

“Your turn,” he rasped hoarsely, and shifted so he hoisted her up as he moved down, his scarred mouth on her oversensitive nub making her gasp in renewed pleasure, the familiar feeling of his fingers pressing into her, comforting in the knowledge that she would get her oh so very much needed release. 

She steadied herself by holding onto the headboard and closed her eyes, letting herself concentrate on the rapidly building maelstrom of pleasure spreading out from his competent fingers and deliciously scarred mouth, kissing and sucking her nub, his tongue flicked hot and fast over her. He probably heard how high-pitched her whimpers had become as he buried his fingers in her like he`d never done before, but her pleasure was too all consuming to make her even consider what was decent or not as he liked her wanton anyway. 

So she didn`t stand a chance by the time he lifted his free hand from her hip to grab her waist-long hair and pulled, his fingers up her… _cunt_ … curling to hit a spot inside her that felt like pure heaven. Sansa arched up and moaned silently, no air reaching her lungs as she felt all control of her body disappear when he pushed her straight over the edge, all too intense pleasure stabbing through her as she was swallowed by ecstasy, her hips grinding shamelessly against his face as she nearly sobbed her relief.

Sansa more or less fell down on the mattress again, her body limp and so sated she felt like going to sleep again right away. Sandor grinned smugly at her before he kissed her mouth and got out of bed in that painstakingly slow way and limped over to the washbasin to clean himself up.

“Bloody hell, seed and hair is a hellish combination,” he grumbled as he scrubbed his impressive upper body clean, making Sansa laugh at him from the bed, stretching from top to toe before she got out of bed to join him. “And, bugger me… how do we explain this morning’s delay, _my lady?_ ”

“Don`t worry, I asked Jaime to think something up,” she answered unconcerned, she knew the man could turn on a coin if need be, he would figure something out.

“You asked the Lion to _think_ today? After his highly personal sea battle last night?” Sandor asked in hoarse incredulity, looking sideways at her. Oh, Gods… she hadn`t thought of that… He shook his head at her, but then suddenly seemed to remember something. “Right, and while we`re on the subject, Sansa; if you _ever_ put Willow to watch over how much I fucking drink again, I`ll go down so unbelievably drunk in revenge that you`ll need four men to get me to bed, is that clear?”

Sansa turned, surprised, having forgotten about the whole thing, but the hard look he gave her clearly spoke about a limit reached. “I`m sorry… I… that was a bit too much, I suppose,” she replied.

“A bit too much,” he confirmed in his hoarse rasp, looking like he was concentrating on keeping it at that. It made Sansa feel foolish – it had seemed a good enough idea last night, as the mood had been quite tense and she wanted him to be _able_ to take her maidenhead, but now… 

She put the cloth in the washbasin and walked over to him as he started to carefully pull on his breeches, sitting on the bed, and laid her arms around his neck. “I`m sorry,” she murmured and kissed him, feeling the affronted tightness to his shoulders go as she stroked her fingers up his neck, cradling his head to her naked chest. 

Sandor’s arms went around her, but then he pushed her away almost roughly, getting to his feet to lace his breeches. “Bloody hell, shove some teats in my face and I can`t remember what the hell I was angry about two seconds ago,” he grumbled, compelling Sansa to cup her breasts playfully and press them up for his benefit, dancing away from him as he grabbed at her, knowing she for once could move faster than him. His own remedy obviously worked brilliantly, though, as he instantly grinned ruefully at her, grey eyes watching her longingly, drinking in her body and making her feel like a Goddess where she stood, naked on the whitewashed floor, kissed by the early morning light of winter.

“Oh, Sandor,” Sansa started, suddenly remembering her courtesies. “Thank you for… the… what you did for me after… that you didn`t just leave it there. I`m sorry I couldn`t…” she trailed off, not quite knowing how to proceed.

Sandor shrugged out of his reverence and looked at her strangely as he fished his tunic off the bedpost. “Don`t be. You`ve been releasing as steadily as a fucking drum on a long ship since we started sharing blankets.”

“Yes, but…” _I want to peak when you fuck me._

He seemed to understand perfectly, though. Looking at her with something she couldn`t quite place in his gaze. “I`ve never had a maid before, so I don`t know how the fuck you work just after having taken your maidenhead. You felt different, though, so I… just fucking blocked out on anything else than the pleasure at some point.” Sandor muttered, sounding irritated at being embarrassed. “But… someone once told me that the worst a woman can do is start to fuss about such things, so… if I ever stop acting the over-excited youth with you, you should peak just fine after a while.”

“Oh…” Sansa said, getting the impression that ‘someone’ was a woman – as Sandor usually used colourful descriptions or just said who it was when talking about men. And the thought of Sandor talking about such things with another woman created a hot flash of jealousy in her no matter how undignified _that_ felt. “Who… told you so?” she asked, surprising herself even more.

Sandor paused in lacing up his tunic, a quiet measuring in his gaze before he just shrugged his shoulders. “A whore.”

“A whore?” Sansa repeated stupidly.

“Yes, a whore – a woman you pay to spread her legs so you can ease the fucking pressure in your breeches,” he rasped back, annoyed. “She got bloody tired of being handled like a crossbow, spent and strung up again repeatedly by sods with the competence of shitfaced squires, so she snapped one day and gave me a rant.”

Sansa stared at him as he tried to pull on his boots, and quickly went to her knees to help him. “So… what had you done to make her snap then?” she asked carefully, looking up at him.

He met her eyes and his mouth twisted into a rueful grin instead of twitching in irritation. “I was being a shitfaced fifteen year old squire,” he answered, dragging her up on his lap. “She thought I would kill her for her insolence. _I_ thought I would kill her for her insolence, but in the end she gave me bloody pleasurable lessons instead.”

Sansa laughed at him, not knowing if she was shocked or jealous, but ended up kissing him fondly. _Don`t ask if you don`t want the answer…_ “You need to tell me more about yourself,” she grinned. “Imagine that: _lessons._ ”

“Seven hells, you should be thrilled that she took responsibility for it…” Sandor grinned wryly. “And from now on you`ll bloody well tell me what works for you and what doesn`t.”

She kissed him softly and he kissed her back, embracing her as the kiss deepened. “You hit something deep inside me that… hurts… when you press me down on you or thrust too deeply,” she whispered into his mouth.

“I`ll try not to be a selfish bastard the next time,” Sandor murmured back between kisses. “You`re just so fucking intoxicating, and I`m getting hard all over again now, so you need to stop kissing me.”

Sansa grinned and rubbed her bottom against his groin before she got out of his lap, making him exhale sharply and grumble something about ‘teasing highborn minxes.’ 

They met Jaime halfway down the stairs, looking more than a bit ragged around the edges, leaning up against the wall and sighing in relief when he saw them. Sandor just measured him up and snorted, grinning widely at the state of him.

“Good morning Jaime,” Sansa said brightly, smiling at him. “Thank you for… this morning’s watch.”

“Yes, well… horribly glad to be of service, Lady Stark,” he answered in a pale imitation of his usual attitude. “Brienne’s downstairs trying to avoid Ser Robin and a conversation including me and a boat, and… might as well just say it… Lady Stark has been having a private meeting with her sworn shield, raising him up to commander and discussing plans.”

“You told them _what?”_ Sansa asked sharply on top of Sandor’s ‘What in the seven burning hells, Lion?’ supplied with a gaze at her that practically shouted ‘I told you so.’

“I panicked!” Jaime hissed in return.

“You _panicked?”_ Sandor growled, as all Sansa could do was shut her mouth so as to not gape at the man, or worse, box his ears. She and Jaime _had_ talked about it during the last week, and him flinging it out to defend Sandor yesterday had been understandable if not appropriate, but _this…_

“Well, they cornered me! It just fell out of my mouth!” Jaime exclaimed under his breath, rubbing his temples. “That charming horse-faced harridan pairing up with quaint Lady Mallister is enough to make _any_ man feel lucky to walk away with his balls still attached,” he finished, looking apologetic and as thriving as a dripping wet cat in late autumn. 

“Fucking glad I`ve never had to line up against an army of scullions with you by my side, then,” Sandor rasped midway between angry and exasperated.

“Ah, right… pretty description there, dog. But you are in no position to sneer at me. I`ll bet half of Casterly Rock on that you would`ve found yourself cleaned every which way and set to do chores you had no intention of doing before you managed to unsheathe your sword against such a foe,” Jaime replied, apparently forcing himself to grin sort of cockily at Sandor, making Sansa laugh despite herself and stroke Sandor’s arm soothingly before he could do more than scowl darkly.

“I gave no specific instructions, so this will have to do. It was only a matter of time, anyway. But,” she said, boring her gaze into his and feeling the cold fury underneath her choice to laugh instead of scolding him for something that couldn`t be undone. “Jaime, know that taking decisions away from me like this... is something you will never do again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Lady Stark, my deepest apologies,” her personal Lion said, inclining his head and not looking nearly as arrogant as usual, actually sounding like he sincerely regretted the whole thing before he apparently remembered something and rubbed his obviously aching head again. “ _Right…_ you`ll just have to flog me, there`s more – Sandor, you`re set to train the orphans as well as the men at arms today. Lady Mallister was against it, but our gracious innkeep made it clear that she would harry me around with a broomstick and serve me my own honour on a plate if I didn`t give in on your behalf. Something about receiving a training session from Lady Stark’s commander making them stand a better chance of being treated like something other than rubbish by the soldiers… I yielded with as much dignity as I could muster as I was already on thin ice there...”

Sandor met Jaime’s bloodshot gaze with a hard one of his own. “You can`t be on watch for, what? An hour?” he started, in a low threatening rasp.

“Two, as a matter of fact,” Jaime shot in, looking an impressive mixture of sheepish and cheeky.

“Without putting me in command of a company of riverlanders on Sansa’s behalf…” Sandor continued without breaking stride. 

“Well, they hate _me,_ ” the Lion of Lannister grinned apologetically.

“And setting me to train _brats?_ ” Sandor finished in a savage growl.

Jaime sighed in defeat. “Marvellous… you`re right. I`m sorry, it`s just… fuck, I`m just so unbelievably winesick… You of all people should remember the feeling of _knowing_ you should have stayed in bed,” he said tiredly. “And by the way… you can`t go downstairs like that.”

Sandor’s expression had in mysterious ways changed to merely annoyed, and compassion was starting to creep in despite his every intention, Sansa saw. “Why the hell can`t I go down like this?” he rasped gruffly.

“Because if Lady Stark smiles her pretty smile beside you, every soul in this inn will see that her teeth match that bruise on your neck perfectly,” Jaime said matter of factly, obviously seeing a lot more than Sansa from his higher view point. 

Sandor’s hand lifted to stroke over his neck, making Sansa feel so bad that she instantly tiptoed up to see how much of it showed, stretching her hand up without thinking. But Sandor simply grabbed her wrist and pushed her gently away from him, a trace of with held lust in his eyes as they met hers, shaking his head in warning, but stirring her up with the way he held onto her a second too long, his eyes on her mouth. “I`ll go put on a scarf,” he said in his rasping voice, letting his gaze roam her body before turning, leaving her slightly breathless.

“Right… now I feel a fool for asking, but… he was gentle with you I hope? The bruise?” Jaime asked quietly when she turned back towards him, true concern in his emerald eyes, looking even greener against the bloodshot whites.

“Yes, Jaime,” she smiled at him, blushing slightly. “He truly was.”

“Brilliant! I`m still surprised at how you affect the man… I`ve seen him bend wenches over tables before, and…” he broke off, studying her, the perfectly handsome knight who felt so strangely like an elder brother. “So, you`re now my sister-in-law for true, Lady Lannister?” Jaime concluded with a grin, making her snort at him and swat his shoulder in mock outrage as they were way past getting offended by such things anymore.

“Be careful, or I`ll ask my commander for the most expeditious means of disciplining _sworn shields_ with wine-dregs for brains,” she japed right back, earning a laughing lion trying to hold his head together in return. “Oh yes, Jaime – another thing. Sandor just told me he would need to be carried to bed by four men if dead drunk. What do you make of that?” she grinned.

Jaime looked at her, amused. “That I would be _simply_ dead with drink if I tried to topple him.”

“No need, he said he would manage it all by himself if I set Willow to watch him again,” Sansa replied, feeling her cheeks redden again, not helped by the Lion’s silent shake of his head, telling quite clearly what he thought of that. “But do you think it`s true? Brienne and Gendry carried him together, but they are both very strong, would there be a need for four _ordinary_ men perhaps?”

Jaime grinned widely at her. “My lady, this is getting more and more interesting! If we only could trick Brienne into giving us her notion… really, she has carried him thrice. Blast her honour! He`s exaggerating of course, but… tell you what, we`ll bet on it. I want a new horse from you if I guess closest to what he weighs, what do you want me to wager?”

Sansa laughed in shock at him. “Jaime! Your squires brought Glory! You already _have_ a horse.”

“I want a second now that we`re riding into hell,” he grinned unperturbed. “And _you_ get a lead, as you share blankets with him – believe me, if I tried to get him on top of me to check his weight he would be _livid!_ ”

Sansa broke down laughing as silently as she could, finding the whole thing hilarious after so many weeks of speculating behind Sandor’s back. “All right, then,” she said when she could speak again. “I want new armour and a sword for him.”

“Done,” Jaime exclaimed just as they heard Sandor limp down the hall again, making the Lion spit hurriedly into his hand and hold it out to her. “One week before we compare stones!” 

Sansa looked incredulously down at his outstretched hand. “A lady does not spit, ser,” she replied without thinking, sounding so much like the proper little lady she was born and bred to be that she immediately took his hand in pure opposition – and dried it on his cloak afterwards.

For some reason Jaime looked like he was bursting with the strain of not laughing, but suppressed it heroically as Sandor limped into view. Containing it completely was obviously too much to ask, though, and the mirthful expression on his face instantly made Sandor glance sideways at him as they started down the stairs.

“What the fuck`s gotten into you?” he asked. 

“I`ve just been reminded that gently bred ladies do not spit,” Jaime informed him in studious honesty, earning Sansa an amused stare from Sandor.

“Well, that`s the simple truth of it,” he rasped in return, meeting Jaime’s gaze, his own face carefully blank but still managing to look suspiciously smug. 

Sansa suddenly saw the link and felt herself blush for all her worth. Gods, Brienne was not the only one who had things flying over her head from time to time… But just as she was about to chide them for their complete lack of manners and decency, two armed riverlanders came striding into view from the common room. 

Watching how her two sworn shields transformed from relaxed and amused, having one of their silent conversations while Sandor eased himself down the stairs, into instantly looking like two warriors out of myth – felt plain out impressing. It all happened fluidly, something about their stance and the way they moved, Sandor reducing all signs of pain to a minimum immediately, an alertness to them that spoke of swords being unsheathed in the blink of an eye if necessary. 

It was strange how Sandor had asked her about the Hound yesterday. After having been just the four of them on the road, all these people now surrounding her made Sandor’s switch into the public role of her sworn shield even more prominent. He might have left his ever-burning rage behind, swapping cutting bitterness for his love for her… but the way he turned those two men with his stare, the way he seemed to grow even more massive, darker, more dangerous as he recognised one of the men as the soldier who`d tried to play tough with him yesterday… If he had used to be Joffrey’s dog, Sandor Clegane was Lady Stark’s Hound in the eyes of the riverlanders, and Sansa… could only silently agree.

She knew that there was a reason for Sandor having said that the Hound was dead upon arriving in the Vale, but they`d never talked about why. He obviously connected the name with a good deal more than she did, because for her it was simply a nickname earned on the basis of the dogs on his shield, his fierceness in battle and his former loyalty to the Lannisters. And it was the Hound she`d prayed for and the Hound she`d dreamt of and missed. Not calling him that had given her an excuse to continue using his first name when they left the Vale, and he`d _let_ her force that intimacy on him, so she hadn`t really taken the rest of it into account until now. But even though she knew better than to say it out loud, the riverlanders persistent use of the name he`d gone under in King’s Landing gave her a strange kind of thrill as well. 

It was a side of her… a side she would have denied heatedly existed only a few years back as it didn`t fit the world of her songs, didn`t fit the romantic story of the fair maid and the chivalrous knight. The side that felt so utterly drawn to Sandor’s hard and brutal core. She hadn`t understood then why she`d secretly felt so proud of ‘kissing’ the Hound up against the Tyrell girls’ tales of kissing mere boys, as she hadn`t understood the simple truth of Sandor contemptuously snarling that ‘knights are for killing.’

But still, there it was; knights were for killing and Sandor could kill knights in his sleep. The pretty little thrill of the riverlanders use of ‘the Hound’ as a title was increased tenfold by him falling into the way he`d always behaved in public. He was no chivalrous knight with elaborate poems for sighing maids; he was the large, savage dominant male that forced his opponents to slink away from him with a growl, or end up with their throats torn out. And somehow, that made every wolfish string in her vibrate in delight…

Watching the riverlanders part to let the Hound through the throng in the common room last night had worked _very_ well for her, to watch Sandor radiate this strangely dangerous vigour without moving a finger, the way he completely dominated the constricted space of the staircase right now… Combined that with how his total confidence in his own skills brought forth his dark humour and menace, his utter lack of respect for society’s norms and rules and having the intelligence to balance it all… it quite simply made him incredibly attractive to her. He was what this brutal world had made him to be, he was Sandor Clegane, known as the Hound, his fearsome reputation based on him being a supreme fighter and a man impossible to fit into the norm he scorned – and it all made her want to turn around and drag him directly into bed again.

Right now, the two soldiers in front of them had the weight of the Hound’s full attention on them, and when he growled that they ‘should get their arses into the common room immediately’ it became evident that rumours travelled as quickly in her camp as any other place. Both men knuckled their forehead and muttered ‘commander’ in return, one severely more sullen than the other, but both of them already turning on their heels.

Sansa followed the men as if they were her vanguard; Jaime and Sandor two steps behind on each side of her, feeling energy fill her and an itch to start on the day’s chores. Willow came trotting with food to break their fast and in mere minutes orphans and soldiers started pouring in, apparently waiting for instructions. 

Petyr had always said that being a leader demanded that you to actually _take_ the lead, adapting to the situations that arose while always giving the impression of control, even if you felt nothing of the kind. So Sansa simply pretended that this was exactly what she had intended all along and waited until the common room was crowded with more or less her complete entourage before announcing Sandor’s sudden rise of status. She expressed her wish for them to form a guard to match any situation they may face, backing it up with the news that they would be leaving for Riverrun in a matter of days and could not expect that such a party would go unnoticed. 

“You know your new commander’s name. As does the rest of Westeros,” she said clearly out in the quiet room. “His reputation speaks for itself, as uncompromising as the world we live in. Make that reputation your own as his men.”

She left it at that, knowing that Sandor had to take command on his own. No pretty words from a lady would ever convince battle-hardened soldiers of anything; his actions would. She would have given him command sooner or later, knowing he had the education and skills, the _understanding_ of battle that was needed. He`d had a natural role as a commander during the Battle of the Blackwater, so he`d probably commanded a lot more than that during his life – and Jaime hadn`t needed to think at all, apparently, before naming him.

Standing on her right, Sandor looked hard as the rock beneath Winterfell, studying the assembled soldiers. Alyn and Willow stood lined up together behind him, ready as pages, with food to break ‘m’lady and her sworn shield’s fast.’ 

“Right, you bloody bastards,” he started out calmly enough in his hoarse rasp. “Brats! Out! Men at arms: get your lazy arses into action and _find_ your fucking arms. You`re expected to be lined up in the yard before I lose my non-existent patience, or I`ll bloody well make you wish your grandmothers hadn`t moaned under the pigs that sired your fathers,” Sandor ended up roaring as benches were scraped backwards and orphans went running, the soldiers not far behind. 

“Splendid… sweet and caring might not apply to him after all, but he _will_ do them good… when they`ve stopped begging for a mercy they won`t receive…” Jaime said amusedly as Sandor strode out of the door with Alyn trotting behind him, his limp barely showing as children running as fast as their thin legs would carry them barely preceded him to the yard.

“I just hope he`ll manage to keep his temper in check with the children,” Sansa said, suddenly seeing another part of this move that actually frightened her while mouthing ‘in a minute’ to Willow, who set her tray on the table with a worried frown.

Jaime looked searchingly at her as she turned, nodding at Elder Brother and Lord Vance, seeing Gendry disappear out the door in his smith’s leather apron, but waited with his response until they went up the stairs again towards the captives’ room. “He won`t keep his temper in check, but neither will he beat the shit out of children, Sansa,” he said quietly. “He`s always had this twisted kind of decency. Don`t get me wrong, he would do anything under direct orders, but on his own…I feel like I spent half my meals on campaign in the riverlands informing people that he simply wouldn`t have sacked Saltpans, the fire part being one thing but all the raping and maiming..? Just not Sandor Clegane’s style of fighting.”

The Lion grinned at her, but the nagging anxiety in her stomach wouldn`t quite go away. The impossibilities of a marriage to Sandor had probably made her shove the whole thing away, but now, when he`d spilled his seed inside her… if her honourable lord father could have a bastard, why couldn`t she when the time was right? Gods should know she wouldn`t conceive any children with her missing lord husband, and a childless life seemed… _empty_ to Sansa. But how would Sandor handle being the father to that bastard? The whole thought of him holding a baby seemed so foreign to her that she had trouble envisioning it… and… she just fervently hoped he would manage to handle the orhans… carefully…

“There`s a big difference between the horrors of Saltpans and beating an obnoxious child senseless,” Sansa answered a bit too late, hearing how absentminded she sounded as they approached the door. “But to me, they are two sides to the same coin.”

“I think you`ll find that the survivors of Saltpans would disagree most profoundly with you there, my lady, but that`s a debate for another day,” Jaime said, looking sideways at her. “But, I can guarantee you that even though his recruits undoubtedly will find themselves sore and bruised after a day in the yard with our dog, Sandor will not beat them bloody or kick in their teeth without an extremely good reason.”

“I`m not entirely sure that is comforting, Jaime,” Sansa replied and went in, holding herself regally as her lion took up his stance at the door.

One of their captives had died the day after they arrived, which left three survivors. One of them was a middle-aged knight with old knife-scars crossing his broken nose: Ser Eldar had fought with Ser Andrew Charlton and his squire Lucas Roote, son of Lord Roote of Lord Harroway’s Town. As both Ser Andrew and his lordling squire had been killed by Lannister forces, it turned out Ser Eldar nurtured neither love for the Lions… nor for Petyr Baelish, apparently. He persisted in his story of joining the hunt to recapture an abducted baseborn daughter of Littlefinger’s merely for the bounty, mixing in something about his oaths as a knight when it seemed to fit. 

Honourable oaths or not, he seemed honest enough, and had provided information about Lord Harroway’s town, House Roote and how the damage from the autumn flood had made people desperate enough to do almost anything for some food in their cellars. He`d even named several of the people responsible for bringing Petyr’s orders into action there. The knight spoke truly, that much was clear after Elder Brother had compared notes with his eyes and ears at Harroway, and he expressed the wish to serve her if she wanted him, saying plainly that he was worthless as a hostage. Lastly and most importantly, he stuck with his story no matter what Jaime, Elder Brother or Ser Robin did to press him.

His two companions, on the other hand, were another story. One of them was a farmer’s son in rough homespun supplied with a mail shirt and a longbow, a bit too stupid for his own good and far too distressed about his lass back home. His name was Aneth and he`d received a blow to the head at the beginning of the fight, waking up just in time to be strapped to a horse, and that was most likely the only reason he was still alive in Sansa’s opinion.

It was the last man that made Sansa itch. Fet Soren appeared to be just another broken man-at-arms seeking whatever employee he could that wouldn`t bring him up against the ranks of either Lions or Wolves. He looked her straight in the eye when he spoke to her, but seemed generally tired of life in all other areas, and yet… 

Well, be that as it may, dragging three captives along in a precious wagon of their own was not something Sansa saw as efficient, so after several talks with Elder Brother she`d decided to go with his suggestion. 

“You wanted to serve me, ser?” she said without further ado, watching something akin to relief cross Ser Eldar’s rough features where he lay chained to his bed.

“Yes, my lady,” he replied matter-of-factly. No pretty phrases. _Good._

“Then you`re personally responsible for your two friends,” Sansa said, nodding at the other beds. “All three will get the chance to prove their worth to me, but you are the only one who will be watched _loosely,_ ” she continued, careful to keep her voice chilly, making sure he understood the unvoiced threat.

“ _Yes,_ my lady,” the knight muttered, already sending his new charges dark glances. 

“You two will stand responsible for what the other does as well,” Sansa said, turning to the men on the beds to her right. “In addition to being watched day and night, of course.” She smiled coldly. “And if I even hear so much as a _whisper_ of treason, I will execute the one in question and flog the other.”

Two sets of eyes were looking at her as if it was only dawning on them _now_ that she might actually be dangerous to cross – and of course, in Aneth’s case, it might be all too possible, having needed three tries to understand that she actually _was_ a lady and not some lost bastard. Sansa waited until their obvious discomfort was ground sufficiently in before softening her tone and addressing Ser Eldar again. “But, if you should turn out loyal, you will not regret serving under a Stark.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the knight replied quietly, taking the message, supplied with hurried exclamations of loyalty from the other two. 

Jaime half-grinned arrogantly at the men he and Sandor had beaten so severely, touching his sword-hilt lightly as he turned to follow Sansa out of the room, radiating all kinds of threats without saying a word. She was _definitely_ getting fond of him.

He ended up trotting after her the whole day, concealing his hungover state as best as he could. After more or less being forced to eat by Willow while giving Elder Brother notice of her having informed the captives, and leaving him to deal with unlocking their chains and setting up a watch-list with Sandor, she went to find Long Jeyne in the kitchens. 

They discussed the food supplies brought by the riverlanders, looked over the hunting and fishing routines they`d introduced ten days ago and discussed preservation – what would be frozen in the stone-storage built outside the kitchen and what should be dried, salted or pickled. What would be left behind and what would be needed as rations on the journey to Riverrun. Elder Brother had received word that the men of the Vale were marching down the river road, so it was only a matter of days before they would meet up with Bronze Yohn. _And then… then I can take on what`s left of my undead mother…_

The orphans had their own routine with washing themselves and their clothes, lessons, chores and training. The responsibility for the smooth running of that operation had been passed to the older boys and girls, but still needed to be overseen by Long Jeyne or herself. They had also managed to make enough clothes to go around, even though shoes were still a problem, but Elder Brother had promised that they could be provided as soon as they travelled a bit further into the riverlands. Probably from pillaging, which felt morbid when the corpses were not always likely to be… fresh, and what they would take would be for _children_ to wear, but the practical part of Sansa refused to feel bad about it. Frostbite was far worse than plucking the boots of a frozen corpse, and she had ordered the looting of her freshly slaughtered pursuers herself, after all... 

“Jeyne, we need to talk about payment for our stay, and… the orphans,” Sansa said, when everything was checked and found in order. 

Long Jeyne studied her with her hard gaze as she rolled up her sleeves, using a precious sack of flour from Lord Vance to mix a dough, her mouth tightening slightly as she worked. “I know,” she finally replied. “I`ll need to put together what you owe me, m’lady, but the children…” There was a rawness to her voice that spoke volumes, her tough exterior never cracked an inch, but her pain at seeing her charges go was all too obvious. “My pardons for taking the liberty of getting the children trained by your commander, but I know very well how urchins and orphans are treated in this world, so… if they were seen to belong to you…” she muttered, sounding anything but apologetic.

“I cannot control what happens in life, but I will give them a good chance to succeed,” Sansa replied quietly.

“I know,” Long Jeyne replied again, flicking a glance at Jaime, who stood looking half-asleep up against the wall. “Wat and his friends want to stay and Mina and the toddlers really think I`m their mother, so… they`ll stay as well. And Helen, Aine and Siren will help me in the kitchen and as maids,” she continued.

“And Willow?” Sansa asked, anxiety fluttering in her stomach before she forced it down.

Long Jeyne looked up sharply from kneading the dough loosely together with wiry strong arms. “You promise me she will remain in your service, not put aside once some proper lady’s maid comes along?” she asked.

“You have my word,” Sansa said, meeting Long Jeyne’s gaze, waiting until she saw the thin young woman in front of her exhale in a mixture of defeat and relief. “ _Thank_ you, Jeyne.”

“It hurts… it hurts to see children die,” the innkeep said quietly, sounding so bitter and broken that Sansa’s heart went out to her immediately, even though she knew Long Jeyne would not appreciate a hug or compassionate words. “I`ve held too many small bodies to my chest feeling their heartbeats dwindle to nothing. I couldn`t have done it any better, m’lady, but with nothing to give them in sickness or when injured, sometimes not even food… it`s pure living hell, to speak plainly… But, it hurts to let go not knowing what will become of them as well, even though I`m not stupid enough to hold them back. So I know it`s _me_ that should thank you, so… you have my gratefulness… if you keep your promises.”

Sansa met Lord Vance in the common room and had an utterly courteous, but quite strained conversation about her choice of command. Sansa refused to defend her decision, to the poor lord’s obvious frustration as he had apparently planned several clever speeches on the matter, but she soothed down his ruffled feathers by including his seconds in command in the meeting with her counsel before the departure. The birthmark covering half of Lord Vance’s otherwise handsome face didn`t bother her in the least, but the chronic sad look in his eyes was starting to annoy her already. _Get a grip, my lord, life is not a song, we do not always get exactly what we want – we`re on a campaign, for Gods’ sake!_

It didn`t stop at that, of course. As she was about to cross the yard to the stable, she was more or less assaulted by Lady Mallister, who begged her once again to take the girls out of the ranks of the recruits. This time she added a subtle hint that Sandor would scare their gentle hearts senseless with his appearance and was in no way the right man to handle young girls – suddenly finding the alternative of them training with Ser Robin and the squires so much more preferable, no matter the impropriety. How Lady Mallister could conclude that the orphan girls had gentle hearts was beyond Sansa – if anything they trained with a fervour that spoke of a hard life as women already. Sansa had no idea what some of them had lived through, but learning to defend themselves was obviously a skill they valued. Which instantly reminded her of Arya, whom Gendry spoke of as taking down _soldiers_ with a strange mix of respect and longing in his voice. Gods… where _was_ her little sister?

Returning to Lady Mallister’s concern for the girls, Sansa managed to console the proud Lady of Seagard by telling her she would ask the girls herself if they wanted to be removed from the training, and told her that Clegane would have other duties to attend to soon enough. She then praised her for her tutoring and managed to throw her off by suggesting she continue the children’s education by teaching them to read and write. That made Lady Mallister blink at the preposterous notion of teaching orphan peasant children to do what many nobles couldn`t, but still had the woman curtsying and walking away with a thoughtful expression on her face.

Jaime looked like he was ready to drop to the ground and cradle his sore head, but grinned after the grey-haired lady nonetheless. “No wonder Lord Mallister is such a stuck up peacock, with _her_ as wife it can`t be anything but pure and honest self-defence!”

“Really, Jaime… coming from you that`s like listening to Sandor chiding someone for getting drunk and beating someone,” Sansa replied under her breath as Willow passed them trying to handle three very uncooperative toddlers, while carrying a large bundle of firewood strapped to her back at the same time. 

Jaime chuckled as Sansa came to Willow’s aid, picking up a small, wild body with black hair and pale blue eyes. Alva had been found wandering alone in a ravaged village according to Long Jeyne, and that was about all they knew of her. She was at least two and a half years old, but did not speak, did not cry, and would wake up repeatedly during the night… _and_ hit and bite and scream in anger. Which was exactly what she was doing now.

“Come Alva, let`s go look at the horses,” Sansa said and hitched the savage child up on her hip, routinely holding small fists down until Alva found her intricate braid to pull hard at instead. Willow looked so utterly grateful as she tried to curtsy her ‘thanks, m’lady,’ complete with the firewood and two small hands in her own, that Sansa bid her rise before she hurt herself. 

They never made it to the stables, though, as Sansa’s feet stopped moving all on their own as she spotted Sandor training a full company of men and three squads of orphans at the same time. He`d divided the soldiers into squads as well, and set half of them to run intervals and the rest to spar with one another and Brienne – who obviously was set on making short work of as many she could, so they could be divided further by skill. The three squads of orphans were led by Jaime’s three squires, which made the Lion mutter something from the side lines about them needing someone to whip them around as well. Ser Robin was walking down the lines of the boys and girls training footwork, and Sandor stood leaning on his sword and alternated between roaring insults at the running soldiers, pointing the sparring men into the group they belonged and shouting obviously protesting knights into the ranks of the common men with the supreme contempt only he seemed capable of. 

He simply looked completely at home, towering over the other men, armed and scarred, with mist steaming in front of his mouth as his rasping voice carried over the ring of steel and grunts of exercising soldiers. To everyone else Sandor Clegane probably looked furious menace made flesh as he roared that if the knights in front of him had never lost their mounts on a battlefield and needed to fight with the infantry, they`d probably always hidden behind the rearguard, the bloody cravens – but to Sansa, it seemed like he was actually enjoying himself. The pale winter light and cold yard seemed to fit him better than King’s Landing ever had, he looked like he belonged here, his southron origins and accent a queer mistake… he quite simply looked like a northman, making a pang of homesickness wash through her. 

Sandor saw her watching and strode over to them after growling the last knight into formation and throwing a grinning Brienne at the lot of them. He even gave Sansa a bow only spoiled by a vicious backward glance and a pretty line of swearwords containing quite a few sers.

“So, as you`re obviously having a feast here, was being raised to commander worth it?” Sansa smiled at him, hitching Alva up into position again.

Sandor glanced at the child with something strange in his eyes, before glowering sourly at Jaime. “You are in for _weeks_ in the yard for this, you mewling piece of shit,” he rasped, making the Lion flash his teeth and Sansa feel hurt even though she upbraided herself for literally asking for it. But the glance he sent her told plainly that he would do it all over again, and his hand balled into a fist as if to keep himself from touching her. All Sansa could do was drown in those hard grey eyes which held so much more – just for her. 

“Careful now,” Jaime said under his breath, leaning on the stone wall. “Right now you`re looking like Lord and Lady Tenderness with their sweet child Joy on my lady’s arm, there…” 

“Seven bleeding hells, shut your fucking mouth or I`ll use you as a target for the archers to train on, you bastard. _Close range,_ ” Sandor growled at him as he broke their gaze roughly and turned on his heel, already upbraiding half the company as inept whoresons as he strode back as well as his limp would let him.

“That was uncalled for,” Sansa said indignantly to Jaime, not needing him to ruin her efforts just as Sandor was starting to come around on his feelings for her.

“No, that was _highly_ called for as it was exactly what you _looked_ like, and may I remind you – in the middle of the yard,” he replied, not faced in the slightest. “Really, have a second look at that child, Sansa!”

Sansa opened her mouth to reply sharply, but her eyes met Alva’s… and she could certainly see Jaime’s point, she _could_ have been hers and Sandor’s by the look of her. She was certainly not Sansa’s, though… but for the first time, she started wondering if Sandor had bastards spread around the seven kingdoms. As a matter of fact, _she_ might be carrying the small beginnings of one right now, because Sandor had not once mentioned moon tea or even _considered_ spilling his seed on her stomach, apparently…

She looked enthralled down in those wary eyes under the fringe of black hair and was only shaken out of her deep thoughts by shouting from the trees as the children on watch spotted something. Jaime pushed her quickly behind him, and was backing her and Alva both in the direction of the inn as crossbows were drawn and men-at-arms lined up in a hurry. They only stopped as the high whistle that meant ‘friends’ sounded across the yard. And in came a messenger with Bronze Yohn’s coat of arms on his chest, surrounded by armed men trotting lathered horses and carrying word that the Lord of Runestone and the forces of the Vale would arrive come nightfall. _It has begun, then…_

Sansa wished she could have prayed for strength, wished she could have believed the _Gods_ responsible for Sandor’s survival instead of the united thoughts and actions of mere humans. It would have been a comfort, a much needed support as she felt fear coil like a venomous snake deep down in her stomach… the nagging thought that her lord father, Robb, Bran and Rickon… her loving mother… had all succumbed in this horrible game, that she was no stronger or wiser than they, and that her failure could drag the seven kingdoms down into even more fire and blood, killing and creating thousands of children such as the one she had on her hip.

_It really has begun…_


	32. Calm before the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you wonderful people!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your reviews *g* Here`s ch 32 and I`m already a good way into ch 33 - inspired into writer's high by all your enthusiasm and positive feedback <3 <3 - so _hopefully_ , the wait will not be so long until the next update.
> 
> Those of you who follow this story at sansa_sandor.livejournal.com in addition to AO3 know quite a few things about me as the author, so I thought it only fair to share some information with the faithful readers and reviewers who`s only _here_ as well. To help you understand why it takes some time between every update, for instance ;-)
> 
> I`m Norwegian - I write in a second language. Therefore, I`m utterly grateful for all the time and energy my brilliant beta The Moonmoth spends to save me from grammatical embarrassment. She`s been doing my beta _every week_ for seven months and is also the one I instantly turn to if I`m struggling with a chapter, the one who pats my head and talk me through my own distress. If you`re interested, this is the humorous version: http://sansa-sandor.livejournal.com/16587.html (join as a member :-))
> 
> I`ve my own firm, a patient husband, two children, four horses, a dog, a cat and a schedule that just keep filling up. Everyone who`s run their own company knows that your workday is not necessarily over when others go home, everyone who works in agriculture knows that seasons and animals do not give a shit about when you would wish the day to be over, anyone who works in therapy, child Welfare and so on knows that there`s simply no room for you to _not_ give a hundred percent. Combine all that and you have my work-life. Then add my own gorgeous children, training and competing my horses, fucking my lovely husband, trying to keep up with my extremely patient friends, having a life.
> 
> This fic started out as an intense need to write down all the plot and smut that kept interfering with what`s written above. It started out as something I did for myself, late in the evenings when the horses were fed and the children asleep, my husband watching football. I started posting after two months of writing - ending up writing at _night_ because it just poured out of me (writer's high *g*). But of course, when writing such a brick of a fic as this has turned out (and was planned) to be, that cannot last. 
> 
> So now, I`ve been trying hard to post once a week, but we all know how brilliant that has worked out for the last chapters *embarrassed cough* The chapters has also been prolonged massively (from about 2500 words in the beginning to 8000-15000 words a regular chapter now), so I`ll go for posting every second week instead from now on, and if I manage to post more often, then HEY: Bonus! *yay*
> 
> Sounds like a plan?  
> Much, much love from a wildling with her head full of stories and a desperate wish for more time to write.

Sansa heard out the messenger with Alva still on her hip, vaguely aware of how Brienne and Sandor simply seemed to have appeared out of thin air beside her and Jaime. The Lion himself had snapped into an impressive guard-stance and somehow managed to look arrogantly ready for anything. Her eyes were fastened on the man who`d dismounted in front of her, but in her peripheral vision she took in everything from the foam spattered chests of the well-fed horses – the lather running down their legs to new horse-shoes – to the fresh tabards the soldiers wore over their unscratched armour, the colours standing out like crocuses against the snow.

Quickly, she let her gaze slide over her own company of riverlanders, lined up sweaty with their breath misting rapidly in front of them after being pushed hard in the yard, wearing dented and scratched armour over worn clothing. They looked plain out ragged in comparison, bleached and dreary – but _hard,_ tough… unyielding. _They`re the still-standing core of the mighty armies of the riverlands. They`re the veterans of this war._ So with that in mind, glad as they undoubtedly were for reinforcements, Sansa could nonetheless almost _feel_ the unspoken ‘where the hell _were_ you when we needed you’ hanging in the air, seeing it in their eyes…

She dismissed Bronze Yohn’s men gracefully, setting Willow and Pia to lead the soldiers inside to get them food and mulled wine. Wat and the stable-boys took care of their horses, loosening girths, unloading saddlebags and walking them down as if they`d done such things their whole lives. 

Sandor stared a passing soldier of the Vale down for looking at him the wrong way before meeting her eyes, silently checking if she wanted him with her. She wondered if he knew exactly how unnerving it was to be stared at like that… probably, he`d grown up with Gregor, after all… and made a small movement of her head to say that she was fine with her winesick Lion, smiling at his concern when he gave her his nod. _Go play with your soldiers, my love._ He did, rounding up Brienne and the squires without further ado and shouted the whole company of men-at-arms into the yard again. 

“I need an inner guard for Lady Stark before the evening, so fucking show me your bloody worth or I`ll leave you useless pieces of shit here to wipe snivelling brats’ arses instead!” Sandor roared as four knights were set to take down Brienne and a squad of ten ‘peasants in mail’ as he would have said, Brienne’s lighter voice shouting for shields and speed, the clash of steel as they threw themselves at each other soon dominating the yard.

Leaving them to do what they did best, she went to find Long Jeyne and to deposit a furious Alva in Willow’s arms. Trying to remember every little scrap of tutoring she`d received to manage a household, Sansa could have cursed the lack of proper parchment and ink. Elder Brother had sent for more, but for now all they had were the small rolls for his ravens – which were making a horrible racket behind the smithy on top of Gendry’s hammering. It would have been a lot easier to organise such a large number of men, what with needing to reckon out the amount of food needed for tonight and what it would cost Sansa – having a written plan before the Lords Declarant arrived would make her life a lot simpler. Not to mention the advantage of being able to write down the names of the recruits and the other orphans she was bringing with her on the morrow…

In the end she and Long Jeyne came to the agreement that Bronze Yohn, his counsel, commanders and lords would take rooms at the inn, eat Long Jeyne’s food from the kitchen, and drink wine from the rapidly emptying cellars. His army would be camped on the fields as King Robert’s entourage once had, and would prepare their own food from their own supplies, of course. But they still needed to be told where fresh water could be found as the river’s brackish water was useless, and to get firewood from farther up the river road as not to strip the area bare. 

So, a messenger needed to meet up with them a couple of hours out from the inn, and orphans needed to be moved out of their rooms once again, to raging protests and sullen silence. And that was _before_ the recruits came in from training just to be told that every single one of them was required to be on their best behaviour tonight in _addition_ to looking their best – so they could turn right back around and start pulling water for baths.

They worked in groups to get it all finished, Sansa setting Lady Mallister to arrange the cleaning of both the orphans, the rooms upstairs and the common room after a new round of making it into bath houses. The grand lady had her uses, her haughty tone combined with her brisk way of organising things turning out to be quite effective – and she truly seemed to love children, telling them stories and singing them songs as they bathed to keep the worst uproar at bay.

“I`ve no grandchildren myself, you know,” she said, back straight and chin held high, but with a sadness in her eyes that spoke of a loss in her life that was hard to conceal. “I`ve no faith in Black Walder treating my husband and son honourably as captives… and now those horrendous Squids are reaping the sea once more… if something should happen to Patrek...” 

“Once we reach Riverrun and my standards are raised for everyone to see, the forces pressing the Lannisters against the Twins can put pressure at Black Walder Frey as well, Seagard and the Twins are not that far apart, and the Freys… the Freys have a lot to answer for,” Sansa replied, trying to comfort her with her words, but knowing it was the quiet strength in her voice that made the lady bow her head in acknowledgement. “May I ask… how did you get out of Seagard, my lady?” she continued after a pause, never having heard Lady Leslyn’s version of events.

“Jason put me in a boat with two of our most trusted household guards when Black Walder stood outside our walls, threatening to hang our son,” she replied quietly, blue-green eyes steely as they met Sansa’s. “I was watching my son, my _only_ son, paraded before his father with a rope around his neck – a well-used Frey method, I`ve come to understand – while being rowed soundlessly away under the safety of the reeds to reach someone… _anyone_ to get help.” Something in her posture changed, a defiance that made her back straighten even more. “But before I reached Fairmarket, the rumours caught up with me, how Jason had yielded Seagard to save Patrek, how he`d bent the knee to the Lions, how the war was lost. But Riverrun still held, and no silver eagle on a purple field was visible at the siege, so I bided my time and waited, finally finding the remnants of the riverland’s defences. Finally finding you.”

Sansa glanced at Jaime, meeting emerald eyes glittering wryly before giving her a barely perceptible hitch of the shoulders as if to say she spoke truly. He was perfectly right in his assumption that he would ride into hell soon enough, being the supreme Lannister villain, so having turned his cloak would in no way make him more trustworthy to her bannermen. And Patrek Mallister was another good friend of Edmure Tully – whom Jaime had sent to Casterly Rock… _Gods, so many traps and factions…_

Elder Brother was discussing a salve to treat the rash of one of the toddlers with Long Jeyne as Sansa and Jaime crossed the common room again. She`d just checked the wine-supply in the cellars, set Pia to do what she could with one of Lady Mallister’s dresses so Sansa would have something to wear tonight, and was still worrying over the lack of time when she walked outside in the cold. 

The tall brother caught up with her as she walked across the yard to the stable, telling her that tents and supplies of cheese, wine and salt were on their way from the Quiet Isle. Jaime leant on the stone wall a short distance away under the pretext of giving them some privacy, but the way he spit discreetly and repeatedly down in the snow told its own sorry tale of his state. He got sidetracked by watching the training across the yard, though, grinning widely as Sandor’s harsh voice demanded that two knights keep ‘the fucking fair princess’ safe, making Brienne laugh between the two men as far too many men-at-arms were set to try to steal her away apparently.

“Sandor`s having such a good time out there,” Sansa murmured to Elder Brother as they started walking again, not able to conceal the grin spreading across her face.

Elder Brother looked at what was rapidly developing into a melee with something akin to longing in his eyes before schooling his features into brotherly folds. “It was what turned him. Sparring,” he answered calmly. 

“Turned him?” Sansa asked, confused.

“What made life seem worth it for him again after his brush with the Stranger, my lady. But you…” he said quietly, looking kindly down at her with his clear blue eyes, “have brought him happiness into that life.” 

“I love him,” she blurted in a whisper.

“Yes, I believe you truly do… a most valuable lesson to behold in this world, how love compensates for the lack of it, how it offsets the hate that has been there instead,” Elder Brother murmured back, nearly sounding sad for some reason even though his dignified and strangely comforting way of speaking made Sansa begin to understand how he might have got Sandor to confess his sorrows. “High-mindedness cease to impress in times like these, my lady,” he continued. “Immoral as it might be in the eyes of the Seven, I still find it hard to judge love as a sin when it erases such demons as can hunt a man’s soul,” the robed man finished, sounding nearly absentminded, if not for the piercing way he looked down at her. 

“Thank you… for sending him to me, brother,” she answered, feeling stripped bare all of a sudden, her heart going out to her lost Hound, the desperate state he must have been in to even give up his name. “I`ll take good care of him.”

“I can see you already do,” Elder Brother replied, smiling gently at her before walking around the stable to his temporary rookery, leaving Sansa feeling stunned in his wake.

Guardian had, if not fleshed out, at least gained _some_ weight again after their hazardous mountain descent. He was also quite clearly tired of being stabled – the result being a rouncey in such high spirits when she`d trained him in the yard that he`d actually frightened her a few too many times during the last week. 

Stranger for his part was much better, but still limping. Elder Brother had given his advice, telling her that movement was nonetheless good for the horse as long as he wasn`t put to work too early, and pressing the necessity of his shoulder-wound healing inside and out. That again led to Sansa doing her best to keep the wound open, getting the scab off and cleaning out the pus and fluids every day. Stranger had a lot of things to say about the matter, but they had also reached an agreement of sorts: she was allowed to clean his wound if he was allowed to find it painful, toss himself around and threaten her a bit. All crowned by their daily, and quite ceremonious, handing over of an apple core. 

Sansa gave Jaime leave to sit down against the wall of the opposite stall while Stranger had the watch, as the stallion had developed quite a reputation over the weeks of their stay. The Lion murmured a grateful ‘thank you’ before immediately going into a half-sleep with his golden and obviously aching head resting on the arms he`d folded across his knees, not giving a damn if the stable-boys looked sideways at him. 

She cleaned Stranger’s wounds up, brushed him down as the stalls were mucked out by whistling lads, the dogs from her hunt wandering around in their wake, and led him out in the faint sunshine that was beginning to slip through the thinning clouds. The creaking of the snow under her boots marked the sinking temperature even without the bite in her nose, which made Sansa wonder how cold it would feel sleeping in a tent all over again without warm bodies on either side of her… Stranger brought her out of her musings by whinnying loudly straight into her ear at the lack of other horses, but limped gently enough along when she led him around the inn. They followed the track they`d made through the frozen rushes below the heavy wooden pilings supporting the south wing, walking where the riverbed had once been according to Long Jeyne. 

Sansa had struggled hard to trust him to walk behind her on such a narrow track in the beginning, knowing all too well that he was trained to trample people down, but she`d gradually found out how to walk with confidence, back straight and with her arms a bit out from her body if she needed to tell him to keep his distance. She`d learnt to stop and back up if she felt his hooves brush the back of her boots. Now he stopped if she stopped, backed up if she backed up and walked on happily behind her with his ears forward on their daily stroll. It was almost as if he felt relieved that she took control like this… _leading_ him… just like Sandor did without thinking.

As it would have been horribly irresponsible to walk outside the immediate reach of her men, she followed her trail around the large inn’s boundaries four times, two rounds each way, before reaching the yard on her way to stable Stranger again. For each lap there had been fewer men showing off their skills under Sandor’s scrutinising gaze and contemptuous swearing, and by the time she stopped Stranger to rub his neck before the stable, there were only ten left.

The men looked properly harassed as Sandor called ‘my lady’ to get her attention. These last ten soldiers lined up before her, removing their helmets to reveal sweat-soaked hair and flushed faces, allowing her to see that the line varied from mere youths to grizzled middle-aged knights. 

“May I present to you something that`ll just fucking have to qualify as your new guard of honour, Lady Stark,” Sandor rasped, sounding nearly irritated for some reason. “They`re the best of this sorry lot, but bugger me if they won`t work their arses off to come up to a level that`ll make any would-be assassins shit themselves on sight,” he finished with a threatening glare at the men staring straight ahead. 

Sansa smiled at the men in front of her. “I`m sure you will all make me proud,” she said, putting some warmth into her voice in contrast to Sandor’s harsh words. 

The combination seemed to work as the men brightened up instantly, knuckling their foreheads and making bows that reflected various levels of skill and social standard. She was not at all surprised that not all of them were knights – even though knights were _supposed_ to be the best fighters there were. Sandor had picked the best men for the job, and not cared one whit what the rest of the knights standing over with the commoners thought about it. Which didn`t go unnoticed of course; the three ordinary men-at-arms who`d been allowed into her guard grinned like mad upon returning to their comrades, receiving hard claps on their backs after being dismissed roughly by Sandor.

“You made… short work of the great sons of the riverlands,” she murmured as Sandor and Stranger limped side by side with her towards the stable again as Wat and his stable-hands came out leading the loot-horses to train them in the rapidly emptying yard. “Thank you so much for providing me with a guard, but do you really need to be so hard on them? Wouldn`t it create a better bond between you if you… I don`t know… gave some praise once in a while?”

Sandor grunted as he walked up the aisle between the stalls. “I _did_ just praise them. And I`ll work them so hard they`ll feel closer to me than they ever did to the whores who bore them,” he grumbled, irritation back in his voice, his limp getting worse the further into the half-empty stable they got.

“Why… Sandor are you in pain or..?” Sansa asked, feeling _something_ radiating out of him, a glance up at his scarred face revealing that he looked annoyed halfway out of his skin, but still… he didn`t contradict her. “You`re off duty,” she concluded softly, stroking his fingers gently as if by coincidence if someone was watching, despite the empty feel to the place. “Go lie down and get some rest before tonight’s meeting. That`s an order.”

“I`m fine, for fuck’s sake,” he growled, diminishing his limp again as he walked over to Jaime, kicking him lightly in the shinbone even though Jaime`d already raised his head at their approach. “The horse`s off duty and so are you, go sleep it off properly, you wreck,” he rasped as the Lion raised himself to his feet, brushing straw and dust from his breeches.

“Marvellous idea. Right away, Commander,” Jaime yawned gratefully, exchanging a mutual glance of understanding and a wry grin with Sandor before giving Sansa his ‘my lady’ and a bow that was spoiled by rubbing his forehead vigorously on his way out.

“Seven hells, I`m glad it`s not me…” Sandor muttered, watching the dishevelled Lion close the stable door behind him.

“Where`s Brienne?” Sansa asked, not so easily side-tracked. “I meant it, you`re off duty as well.”

“Told you I`m fine, and Brienne`s off to the privy,” he replied as he tethered Stranger in his stall, rubbing the mount’s black neck affectionately before joining her again and pointedly ignoring her exasperated stare. And nearly didn`t limp at all as he followed her when she went to get Guardian’s saddle and bridle from the tack room – as if hiding pain was the same as convincing her everything was as fine as he said it was. _Idiot man…_

Reaching out and stroking down his side, Sansa did what Elder Brother had taught her when feeling for swelling or ruined tendons, and quickly pressed the pad of her fingers precisely and firmly to where she knew he was still bruised. He jerked away from her touch with a grunt, glaring down at her when she raised one eyebrow at him, not at all surprised even though his state made worry prickle the back of her neck. 

“Want me to go over the rest of you as well? As I do to Stranger every day? You`re _off duty,_ ” she murmured, pronouncing the last words slow and clear. 

He scowled at her and she met his gaze with an unyielding one of her own until mirth slowly replaced the anger in those grey depths and his mouth ended up twitching in amusement. “Bugger me, you`re stubborn, woman… All right. After I`ve helped you out with whatever the hell you`re going to do in the tack room,” he rasped.

“I can manage fine on my own, Sandor…” she started, not wanting him to overstrain anything, but he cut her short as he opened the door for her and more or less shoved her inside.

“No you bloody well won`t,” he replied under his breath. 

His mouth closed in on hers hungrily as the door banged shut, pressing her up against layers of old harness hanging from the wall as he kissed her hard. She smiled at him and wrapped her arms around his neck as he sighed deeply in something that sounded like relief, embracing her in return as he leant heavily on his good leg. 

“You`ve fucking ruined me,” he murmured hoarsely between kisses. “I can`t go half a day without you before starting to pace.”

Holding back her instant ‘I love you’ Sansa just smiled again, tightening her grip around his neck and feeling his arms holding her harder towards him in turn. She turned her head slightly, parting her lips to kiss him deeper, sliding her tongue across the underside of his scarred upper lip before their tongues touched, making the whole man melt in her arms.

“You _like_ kissing,” she murmured against his mouth, grinning fondly at how strongly he always seemed to respond to it.

“I like kissing _you_ ,” he muttered back, already slightly breathless.

Sansa chuckled softly. “So, if I ever find you kissing someone else, I`ll be relieved to know you`re not enjoying it?”

“Believe me, I`ve never been in the habit of kissing wenches,” he replied as his hands slid down her back, stroking over her bottom.

“You… what… but you`re _good_ at kissing!” Sansa whispered, surprised, making him grin against her lips as he untied her braid, loosening it up and twining his hands into her hair. 

“Fucking veteran on the matter, are you?” he whispered hoarsely in return.

“No, but I _hav_ e kissed a few men. What if I was, though? Can`t blame a woman grown for having kissed before,” she replied cheekily.

He chuckled. “No,” he answered softly, but his lips claimed hers almost possessively nonetheless, his hands balling into fists in her hair, holding her hard.

“You strange man, _you_ got my maidenhead, what do kisses matter up against that? Especially with all the women _you`ve_ had!” she whispered, breaking their kiss to crane her neck to look him deep in his eyes, letting her hands stroke up his neck to cup his face, his black hair caressing her fingers and forearms.

Sandor looked back down at her with something strangely insecure in those usually hard grey eyes. “I`ve fucked a lot of women, doesn`t mean I`ve flaming _had_ them,” he muttered.

“How… what do you mean?” Sansa asked, confused, even though her heart went out to him already, caressing his neck with her fingertips.

“No matter what _you_ apparently think about my face, it doesn`t exactly make wenches throw themselves at me, now does it? I`ve never had anyone to steal away to kiss before… like we`re doing now, or… Ah fuck it, I don`t know why I respond like this,” he rasped irritably, grimacing at the whole theme. “Seven hells, tell me how those buggers fucked it up when they kissed you and I`ll bloody well cling to that.”

Sansa smiled lovingly at him, knowing him well enough not to let her intense compassion show. “Two words; teeth and slobber,” she replied in a murmur, making him laugh softly. “Completely horrible – exactly as you probably behaved towards those ‘wenches,’ by the way. Women don`t usually respond with kisses when being mocked and threatened, you see,” she whispered smilingly, making him snort at her before she pulled gently at his neck to make him close in, his scarred lips meeting hers perfectly, kissing her firmly before he tilted his head and parted his lips to kiss her deeper. “Which is a shame since you could have kissed every one of them senseless,” she gasped after feeling his tongue slide against hers oh so deliciously. “But don`t worry, you`ll be stolen away for kisses as often as possible from now on.”

Her hands slid down his chest and stomach, her arms folding around his waist so her body was pressed flush against his, feeling how it instantly stirred her up even more. Her legs parted of their own accord as lust swirled rapidly through her body, hooking her calf around his good leg she instantly made him angle it in between her own. His low groan as she licked the unburnt part of his mouth, and the way his lips simply parted to let her caress him with her tongue as he just breathed heavily against her mouth, made a wave of arousal slam through her and making him harden against her stomach.

“This works a bit too well for me Little Bird,” he half-groaned, half-murmured breathlessly. 

“How does _this_ work, then?” she whispered back, moving her hips over his muscular thigh as she sucked gently on his lower lip. She simply loved the low growl of pure lust he made, the way he grabbed her hips and grinded her against him, soared on the sensation of making him go to pieces in desire before her.

“Too bloody good,” he gasped into her mouth as she kissed him heatedly again, stroking her hands forwards and over both the sword belt strapped across his chest and the one carrying his other weapons, folding his coat aside to caress the bulge curving the front of his breeches. “Don`t, fuck… _Sansa,_ I need to be able to _walk_ out of here again,” he panted, but his strong fingers around her hips simply went up her back to trail over her scalp, fisting her hair at the back of her head, making goose-bumps prickle across her skin and a soft moan escape her lips. 

“Nobody`s stopping you,” Sansa whispered mirthfully, with lust thick in her voice, feeling how he started bucking his cock into her hand, his ragged exhales and the sensation of his hard cock making her ache in dull thuds between her legs. 

Gods, she loved watching Sandor when he was aroused! There was something about making him completely lose control over his breathing and his body’s reactions that worked her into a frenzy. Giving him pleasure and love, making him feel her desire for him… Elder Brother had a point about replacing his demons. Giving this hard man, who`d been filled with so much bitterness and hate for so long, _love_ and gentle touches… seeing how incredibly starved he was for it, only made her love him even more. 

His love for her in return was pretty obvious as well as they started caressing each other, his mouth on her neck and hands on her breasts having her panting against his scarred temple instantly, the way he grazed her gently with his teeth as he bucked his cock up against her making arousal turn to white-hot need. Feeling utterly mischievous she started backing up, Sandor following after her kisses and her caresses until she`d turned him completely before she hitched herself up on one of the grain bins and dragged up her skirts. 

Sandor’s anguished expression said it all as he looked between her legs and then at her face and then at the door. She knew Wat and the boys would be gone for a while, but could almost _see_ Sandor adding his numbers before resolutely barring the door with a broom, already unlacing himself hurriedly.

“How fast can you release?” she whispered, her smallclothes clinging with her wetness for him.

“Fast as hell when I need to,” he replied in his hoarse whisper, folding his laces aside as Sansa kicked off the moist garment.

“Then come fuck me before somebody starts to wonder where we are, _my lord,_ ” she grinned at him, blushing scarlet at her own bawdy words and audacity.

“Seven hells, _never_ stop being so spirited,” Sandor whispered heatedly as he guided his hard cock out of his breeches and positioned himself between her legs as Sansa put her arms around his strong neck.

He leant heavily on his good leg, something studious in the way he moved that made Sansa feel a new pang of worry for him. But she forgot about everything else when he wrapped his shield arm around her and steered his cock against her entrance, the sensation of the head of him pushing against her opening as she spread her legs more for him making her moan in pleasure.

“Little Bird… even though I get off like hell on your delicious noises… be quiet!” he muttered hoarsely as he started stroking himself, his other hand tightening it`s grip on her as he teased her into a burning want for him inside her again, making her tighten her arms hard around his neck in anticipation and bite back another moan.

“Be practical and kiss me, then,” she whispered breathlessly, his lips brushing hers as he pressed his cock a short way into her with a sharp exhale, letting go of his cock to caress her nipple through her bodice, sheathing himself slowly as his mouth found hers for true. It didn`t burn like it`d done this morning, just _stretched_ nearly unpleasant for a second before desire for him dominated her body again, just the _thought_ of what they were doing having her panting. 

“Tell me how deep,” he breathed raggedly against her mouth as she squirmed up against him, making him shift to let his sword arm take her weight as if she weighted nothing at all.

She let herself slide down on him, feeling herself stretch more around him, his cock filling her up until she felt a sharp twinge of pain and Sandor breathed like a blown horse. “There,” she whispered. “No deeper than that.”

He fucked her slow but firmly, keeping away from what hurt, grunting in pleasure as she too found the rhythm, making her whimper against his lips as she moved her hips to meet him, her hand edging down to get the clothing out of the way so her nub got friction against his stomach. He leant her onto the bin again and broke their kiss to look at her face, pleasure painted across his scarred features.

“Have you never been sneaked away for a… fuck, either?” she whispered raggedly at him, making his mouth twitch half in dismay half in amusement as he moved rhythmically between her legs, the sensation starting to build massively.

“That depends on the context, now doesn`t it? Why… oh, hell this feels so bloody good… why do you want to know these things? I just… want to break the neck of any bastard who`s ever touched you noisily enough to be heard at the Wall…” he answered shakily as she held him a bit closer, pushed him slightly deeper as her body adjusted around him.

“Because I really _do_ want to know more about you,” Sansa replied under her breath, “and because I would`ve liked to be your first in something as well,” she added somewhat embarrassed, blushing as he fucked into her, something smouldering in his gaze as he met her eyes.

“Believe me, my little utterly peculiar Bird, you are my first – the only fucking one who`s ever mattered,” Sandor muttered hoarsely, kissing her passionately as she wrapped her stockinged legs hard around him when he moved faster, more heatedly. “Oh fucking hell,” he groaned softly against her lips as she met his every thrust, pressing herself against him, her arms iron around his neck. 

He was right; it felt _so good,_ pleasure surging and tingling through her entire body, even though she knew it was hopeless to try to release like this, with the stress of being found out and everything. The bin dug into her bottom and thighs as well, and Sandor’s cock was beginning to hit that vulnerable place deep inside her again as he started to lose control, thrusting harder. 

But it felt merely uncomfortable, not directly painful, and he was so utterly enthralling to look at when in such pleasure, making Sansa tentatively start to _roll_ her hips down on him for every thrust just to see how high she could get him. Sandor responded instantly, breaking their kiss to gasp against her hair, his own movements abating as he simply seemed to enjoy what she was doing to him immensely for a moment. And then made the most arousing, strangled groan against her temple, kissing her skin, and started to buck his hips in pace with her again.

“Fuck, Sansa… just _keep on_ … seven bleeding hells,” he panted, making her fly sky-high on the pleasure and the amazing experience it was to make that note of desperation enter his voice. So she continued, lifting her head to claim his lips again and rolling heatedly up against every thrust of his hips, until Sandor obviously couldn`t take anymore. “Oh Gods, I`m there,” he groaned raggedly, gasping for breath as his movements turned erratic until he suddenly tensed hard and buried his face roughly in her neck to stifle his moans. He held her almost painfully close, engulfing her in his arms as he lost it, his cock pulsing inside her as she tightened her legs around his bottom. Sansa heard herself whimper in need as she rocked her hips hard against him while he pressed equally hard into her, _nearly_ having her at the edge for a moment in that strange resonating way of shared pleasure, even if it hurt a bit.

She held him as his cock softened inside her, kissing his hair as he tried to collect himself, breathing in the good smell of him. “Thank you,” he breathed hoarsely against her neck, surprising her.

“You`re welcome, Sandor,” she whispered back, hugging his hulking form to her with all the love she felt for him slamming into her chest, her own need not sated but feeling _fulfilled_ in a way nonetheless.

Brienne stood looking lost in the stable when they finally came out from the tack room carrying saddle and bridle for Guardian, tidied up and with Sansa’s hair demurely in a braid once more. The not-quite Maid of Tarth didn`t look suspicious in the slightest at the amount of time it had taken them to get those two items, only smiled relieved at having found her charge, and walked over to help them.

Sandor glanced at Sansa with grey satisfaction in his eyes before limping out to the yard to watch the boys train the loot-mounts, looking for a replacement for Stranger. That left Brienne to help Sansa ready Guardian, and Sansa in deep thought about how to tackle the different factions of her growing army, speculating on how Bronze Yohn would see fit to ‘advise’ her, mulling over the Lords Declarant’s expectations of her as a figurehead or a ruler...

“Sansa… um… may I ask you something?” Brienne muttered all of a sudden, pulling Sansa out of downward-spiralling thoughts of where in the name of the Crone Petyr had disappeared to… and Brynden Tully for that matter. She kept having such queer dreams about mockingbirds and fish, blending into each other, marking each other. In her earlier dreams the fish had been marked with a mockingbird, but now it was the other way around, and had been for quite some time… “Sansa? My lady?” Brienne tried again.

“Oh, I`m sorry, what did you say?” she replied, exasperated by her own absentmindedness.

Brienne blushed and kept her eyes fixed on the buckle she was fastening. “Just wondered if you and Clegane had… you know… and if you… because I can`t...”

Sansa felt her eyebrows climb upwards in surprise. “One more time, Brienne. You`re wondering if Sandor has taken my maidenhead? And then..?”

Brienne was rapidly turning a quite unflattering shade of scarlet. “Pardons… I… I`m…” she stuttered. “I just can`t… can`t _complete,_ and Jaime…” 

Sansa dived in before Brienne became too mortified to ever indulge in pillow talk again. “ _Yes,_ I`ve given Sandor my maidenhead, and no I can`t peak either while we`re doing it!” she said hurriedly, making Brienne come to an abrupt halt in her miseries.

“It`s not just me?” she replied, relief strong in her voice. “I`ve been feeling so inadequate, and even though Jaime just grins at me I can see that he`s disappointed.”

“Sandor said it`s just a matter of giving it some time,” Sansa answered soothingly

“But… I _have_ given it some time!” Brienne answered, her tone frustrated. 

“Brienne, you haven`t been at it for that long, just… relax… and… I`m sure it will work out just fine,” Sansa said, feeling on mightily thin ice as an advisor in this matter as she had no clue how these things worked, really.

Brienne sent her a mortified glance. “But… I`ve _never_ been able to… even though Jaime makes it feel so good and…” she replied, more or less in a whisper. “All I can think of when things turn… nice… and he gets expectant, is how he used to be with… with Cersei, who`s so utterly beautiful and perfect and surely arched like a golden bloody _Goddess_ for him all the time. And I just can`t! 

“So, you`ve _never_ with Jaime..? But… you`ve managed well enough on your own I take it?” Sansa tried, feeling so bad for her friend that she just wanted to hug her.

“I`ve never… touched myself… I don`t like my body or…” Brienne trailed off, feeling down Guardian’s leg just to have something to do, apparently.

“Brienne! How can you say such a thing! You have a magnificent body!” Sansa replied, indignant at how Brienne just discarded herself like that, making her friend look at her incredulously in return. 

“No I haven`t! I`m so manly that _not a single suitor_ wanted me, with or without the whole of Tarth into the bargain,” she said under her breath, the sudden heat and soreness in her voice taking Sansa aback. “That`s the sole reason I gave in and… and… let Jaime fuck me! Because I`m so unbelievable ugly that I`m wasted as an heiress anyway – the only man that never gave a damn was Ser Hyle, and… and… I want _Jaime,_ and even if he`ll never marry me, I`m no less unattractive _ruined_ at the bottom of the list anyway, because they`re the only ones who… who`ll just blow out the light and fuck themselves to land and a title!”

Sansa stared at her, shocked in the silence that followed that explosion of bottled-up feelings and thoughts. “Brienne…” she started quietly, respectfully, trying to let her friend know how much she cared for her. “Who do you let decide if you`re attractive or not? ‘The bottom of the list’ or the agonizingly handsome highborn knight who turned his back on the beautiful queen to follow you, _and_ who quite pointedly _said_ he`d wanted you as his wife when he thought he was leaving your side to die?”

“I… what?” Brienne whispered with large blue eyes opened wide, looking so stricken that Sansa’s heart bled rivers for her.

“Not to say that I`m feeling quite offended by my own judgement being placed under Ser Hyle’s,” she said, gaining her footing again. “A man who I`ve only ever heard you grumble insults about.”

“I`m sorry, I didn`t mean…” Brienne stuttered unhappily. 

“I know,” Sansa replied soothingly, reaching out to squeeze Brienne’s arm. “But you need to change your way of thinking there. We`ve been washing together for over a month, one can`t help noticing the other’s naked body when doing that! You`re quite impressive, lean and muscular, small well-formed breasts with perfect nipples, long strong legs, nice firm bottom. You`ll never be petite, but you should carry your body with pride.”

“Really..?” Brienne answered, looking embarrassed, utterly confused and highly unused to getting compliments. “But my face…” she began before blushing all over again continuing in a mortified half-whisper. “I`m sorry, I know you like Clegane’s face, so my scars and… and… hardly counts.”

Sansa grinned. “You have the most stunning eyes I`ve ever seen, and with lips like yours I`m starting to believe Jaime asks you to kiss your way down his stomach quite often,” she said, quickly getting into the proper way of pillow talking now that Brienne was starting to relax again.

Her friend, on the other hand, seemed completely lost. “He… why… oh!” she exclaimed in sudden understanding, making Sansa want to roll her eyes in mirthful exasperation. “Not… not since he asked and I backed out of it… Gods, this is so _indecent!_ ”

“Why in the heavens’ names would you back out of it? Wasn`t he clean?” Sansa asked intrigued.

“No! I mean yes! He was clean… he… I… do you think I should have done it?” Brienne replied, suddenly sounding a mixture of worried and anxious.

“Yes! It`s wonderful!” Sansa exclaimed with conviction, grinning widely at Brienne’s baffled expression. “I get aroused by it at least. You should try it and let Jaime use his mouth on you in return as well.” _That_ was obviously too much for Brienne to take in all at once, so Sansa hurriedly went back to the original theme. “Anyway, try finding your pleasure on your own first, and push those weird thoughts of yours away. Who knows – it might work.”

“Yes well… nice to know even the perfect Lady Stark struggles once in a while,” Brienne murmured with a shy smile on her lips, before she glanced at Sansa, alarmed again. “Not… not badly meant, of course.”

“I know Brienne,” Sansa replied and hugged Brienne soundly.

Guardian was ecstatic at being led out into the sunshine, trotting on the spot and throwing his head, whinnying at the other horses before Sansa had even got him properly out of the stable. She felt the small pang of fright she`d been getting lately when she was about to exercise him, and had deliberately waited to change into breeches so she could set one of the boys to lead him around outside the yard for a little while, hoping that it would calm him down a bit.

But upon arriving in the yard again, breeches on and Brienne in tow, Guardian was still trotting sideways with a flustered youth hanging on the end of his reins. _Oh, Gods… I`ll just have to hope for the best then…_ The trouble was the reputation she`d built for herself during these last weeks. It had never been her intention, originally, but since Stranger only allowed her to take care of him beside his master, and plodded happily along for all to see when she walked him – just to turn into a monster from the hells if anyone else came near him – she`d somehow come off as a storybook lady with magical powers to tame the beast.

So, she simply _couldn`_ t be seen to be frightened of riding her own usually sweet rouncey, as all those whisperings of her built to give her credit in other areas as well. Petyr had explained Tyrion’s fall in King’s Landing as ‘a severe lack of understanding of how rumours turns to truth’ – in addition to him having been his sister’s object of hate from childhood, apparently. But nonetheless, it reminded Sansa of the stories from her own childhood, legends, Old Nan’s songs about all the horrors and mysteries she`d actually claimed to be true. Maybe they actually _had_ started out as small pieces of truth, whispered into a rumour that turned to yet another truth as the time went by – until they ended up as legends. 

Sansa had been tutored well by a true master. In the game of thrones you either learned to think abstractly, to use whatever piece was handed to you, edging the rules and using your mind to bend the other players to your will – or you would quite simply be trampled down. Petyr had balanced the disadvantage of his low birth and relative poverty with his brilliant mind and economical understanding. Now Sansa had to balance the disadvantages of her gender and young age with her own intelligence, just as he had… _and all the tricks in the book._ That included using rumours to her benefit, letting soldiers gossip about how she could even make the Stranger do her bidding – and not ruin it by being petrified of a pretty little mount.

It went better than expected, though, as she wasn`t thrown off, but that was about it. Sandor was leaning heavily on the stone wall, studying the horses that were working in the yard with his brow furrowed, no doubt annoyed at the mess the boys were making of the highly educated horses. Alyn was standing by his side again, glancing up at him nervously and fidgeting with a loose thread on his jacket, making Sansa wonder how long it would take for Sandor realise that he had a ten year old boy who wanted to be his squire more than anything trotting at his heels…

Guardian couldn`t for the life of him stand still when she mounted him, trying to tug the reins out of her hands immediately, and was nearly frightened to death by the same post he`d walked past _every day_ when entering the yard – instantly flying to the left before Sansa’s temper got the best of her and she reined him in sharply. His behaviour improved slightly after that, but he still felt tense as a bowstring, trotting with shortened steps, his mouth feeling like iron as Sansa tried to control all the explosive energy in him.

“Breathe,” Sandor muttered as she trotted past him, meeting her gaze for a second before she managed to guide Guardian onto a volte, where he stood.

“I am,” she hissed back just as the horse’s rump shot out of the volte, making her cling to him for half a heartbeat before he jumped up on his hind legs, throwing his head and bucking sideways across the yard with Sansa clutching his mane as if it was her lifeline. It wasn`t until Sansa became seriously afraid they would crash into the opposite stone wall that he stopped short and threw up his head, smacking Sansa hard across the face and blowing loudly through his nose. _Blasted horse!_ Feeling her throbbing nose and bruised pride, Sansa tried to put on a calm face and simply asked him to walk again, asked him to lower his head and _work_ like Sandor had taught her, fixing her gaze on her sworn shields so she wouldn`t need to look at the rest of the possibly sniggering people in the yard.

Brienne looked worried but not alarmed, and Sandor’s mouth twitched as if he wanted to grin widely at her, but had the sense to keep the rest of his scarred face blank, at least. “ _Now_ will you breathe?” he repeated under his breath when she rode up to him, the glint of laughter in his eyes nonetheless making her stare haughtily in return. 

But as she had no better solution, she started taking deep breaths, feeling her own tension abate and her shoulders sink – and in some mysterious way feeling how Guardian prolonged his steps a bit, how his mouth softened through the reins. 

“Let those fucking long legs of yours down,” Sandor muttered as she rode past again. “Put your weight through them.”

He kept giving her hoarsely muttered instructions, telling her to use her inner seat-bone, bend the horse inwards, ask him to use his hind legs, prolong his step, relax, breathe… until Guardian suddenly started _dancing_ under her, soft and light and utterly wonderful. Her little beautiful rouncey floating between the destriers and coursers, cooperating with her with his neck arched, his ears topped.

She stopped after a while and rubbed his neck, feeling so utterly satisfied and happy with him as she walked him on long reins over to Brienne and Sandor – and Alyn, who immediately swung over the wall to hold her reins for her as she dismounted.

“Not such a shitty horse, after all, eh?” Sandor said wryly under his breath, making her grin ruefully back at him, feeling stupid for blaming it all on her mount when how she rode him had so clearly affected his behaviour.

“No,” Sansa replied and patted Guardian’s winter-furred and sweaty neck again, finding herself used as a convenient place to scratch one’s head in return. “Alyn, could you please stable Guardian for me after walking him down? And give him some extra hay – he deserves it,” she added, suddenly regretting giving Stranger the _whole_ apple core.

Alyn looked utterly grateful for being allowed to show his worth with horses and walked happily away with Guardian. Sandor for his part seemed nearly surprised at the lad being there at all, before laboriously raising himself from where he leant on the stone wall, something glazed in his eyes as he straightened to his full impressive height, testing his bad leg lightly before putting weight on it.

“Please, Sandor… go to bed?” she murmured, concentrating on not reaching out for him, wanting to kiss him… and shake him for not listening to her earlier orders. But to her great astonishment _and_ worry, he simply sighed and nodded, glancing at her mouth in return as he gave his ‘my lady.’ His side _really_ had to hurt for him to avoid giving her a bow when they were in public like that, making Sansa follow him with her eyes as he limped heavily in the direction of the inn. _I_ will _take good care of you, as you obviously have no understanding of how to take proper care of yourself, my love._

Looking at the sun and nearly cursing at how the time had seemed to fly, Sansa walked briskly behind the stable to the smithy, side by side with Brienne, wondering how exactly she should approach this next and quite vital part of her plans. 

The room was hot and dim in contrast to the cold, white light of winter sun on snow from outside. Made even more so by the old stones of the walls and the beams of the roof blackened by smoke from the forge for generations. The walls were covered in tools, iron and steel bars were stacked in tall containers, horse-shoes were threaded on racks and things that needed mending were hanging from hooks in the roof or were leant against the walls together with stacks of parts of armour.

Gendry was concentrating on using the bellows to get the right temperature, the yellow glow from the coals when the air hit them lightening up the room. Jack, his sort-of-apprentice, came in the back-door carrying two buckets of water, the boy putting them down abruptly when he saw her to give her a clumsy bow with the forge in the background… and all of a sudden, all Sansa could see was a seven year old Sandor being held facedown against a brazier, hear his screams as his face melted in a burning living hell. 

How long had it taken before Gregor had been wrestled to the ground? Gods, the panic it created in _her_ just visualizing that scene, the utter powerlessness and terror he must have felt, a small boy’s overwhelming agony… and his father telling everyone his _bed_ had caught fire? Letting Gregor just walk away without a scratch to be knighted by Rhaegar Targaryen himself a few years later? Anointed by the seven, swearing his knightly oaths of pure… _nothingness._ No wonder Sandor hated his brother, no wonder he rarely spoke about his childhood… No wonder he refused to be knighted.

Swallowing the pang of nausea and trying to still the way her heart was beating hard in her chest for her beloved brute, she moved forwards to get Gendry’s attention as Brienne took up her post beside the door and Jack sat down in a corner to be out of the way and ready if he was needed.

“Ser Gendry, I need to speak with you if you can spare the time,” she said as he straightened from the bellows, looking quite handsome in his leather apron, sooty and well-muscled with his brows slightly furrowed under his thick black hair. If Sansa’s suspicion of him being somewhat in love with her sister turned out to be true, she could only applaud Arya’s good fortune… if they ever found her, that was. _Please Arya, you belong to the living, not the dead._ Somehow, even imagining her sister dead felt… strange… but then so did imagining her little brothers in their graves, as well. Had they even _been_ laid properly to rest under Winterfell? It was frustrating not to know. 

Gendry was very much alive at least, but had been strangely absent from the picture since the riverlanders arrived, even more so after Lord Vance and his men had presented themselves. Sansa had the nagging impression that even though Gendry might never admit to it, he had the same queer feeling about his odd mix of titles. Especially the unconventional knighting. She knew how much he struggled with what Lady Stoneheart had made of the Brotherhood without Banners as well, even if he still seemed to hold onto his oaths in his own ways. But the important thing was that he`d also kept his promise to _her,_ had not breathed so much as a word of who was staying under the same roof as him to his so-called brothers. 

“I`ve got the time, m’lady,” Gendry answered somewhat defensively, looking warily at her as he put something that apparently was the beginnings of a breastplate into the heat. “As long as you don`t mind me working, that is,” he added sullenly.

“I need you in my counsel tonight,” she said, ignoring his attitude and watching in fascination as he collected new tools from the walls with strong arms and practised movements. “And I need you to do me a favour.”

Gendry stopped what he was doing, scowling at her before obviously realising that it wasn`t really necessary yet and continued moving the steel in the forge with a long-handled tong. “What favour?” he muttered. “And why do you want with _me_ in your counsel?” 

“Am I right, _ser,_ thinking that you would like proper training, but that your title makes it difficult for you to seek instruction?” Sansa asked, as Gendry removed the steel and held it with the tong as he started hammering at it on an anvil, creating small dents in a tight pattern and forming the plate. “Would you _want_ a knightly education or are you more comfortable working the forge?”

Gendry looked like his brain might boil from trying to figure out what she would gain by avoiding his questions, changing the subject like that. He continued hammering out the last curves with his face screwed up in thought, before putting it back into the fire. “I want both, why do you ask?” he said after the long pause, obviously uncomfortable with giving in to her, but looking stubborn enough to melt rocks.

“Because it is my wish for you to transfer your allegiance to me, as Lady Stoneheart has not fulfilled her part of the oaths that were sworn,” Sansa answered softly, feeling ill once more at the thought of what her mother had become. She watched Gendry’s expression as he stared fixedly at the steel, and waited for it to change from annoyed to agreement before continuing. “She does not protect the weak, does not give her victims justice. All she does is a madwoman’s desperate work of revenge, trying to ease a sorrow she cannot find release for in her dead heart.” 

“I swore their oaths and was knighted for it,” he muttered at last, moving the plate in the forge, waiting until it glowed red before using the tong to take it out and angled it precisely down in the large water trough Jack had filled.

Sansa waited until the hiss and damp had abated, impressed at how easily Gendry handled the heavy material, fascinated to see that the dents were more or less gone as it was put into the forge again. “But do you really _feel_ like a knight, ser?” she asked, curiously. Deciding to put it plain in case Gendry’s more… slow… and stubborn side went into a deadlock on the matter. She waited patiently for him to answer as he scaled thin, greyish-black layers of steel from the plate with a dagger-like tool as the metal slowly turned shinier, glowing nearly blue. 

He didn`t speak until he`d quenched the steel once more, just a quick, hissing dip of the finished work, raising it out of the trough, shining like a mirror all of a sudden and looking absolutely stunning. If Gendry wasn`t a proper knight, he was certainly on his way to becoming a master smith…

“I`m knighted, so I _am_ a knight,” he replied sullenly, as if he`d read her thoughts. Reminding her that even if he sometimes came off as quite dense he obviously had his instincts in order, making her study him expectantly as he placed the new breastplate against the wall. “But I`ve no education and no one to train me without making me pay for calling myself ser… and… it was all different when Dondarrion was still… sort of… alive…”

“If I guarantee you proper training by someone who doesn`t care one whit whether you`re a knight or not, and take you into my service as a smith in addition, will you transfer your loyalty to me as your lady’s daughter? Would you ride under my banner to actually _aid_ the riverlands and its smallfolk?

Gendry looked at her under furrowed brows for a long time, mulling it over in his head and apparently needing some time to count the advantages up against… not breaking his oath. Sansa had been very careful of her wording there as she was quite sure Gendry was a man of his word, sure he would balk if she insinuated he was a turncloak. But _transferring_ his loyalty, on the other hand...

“Yes,” he sighed at last, looking angry. “Now, what`s the bloody hitch, m’lady?” 

Sansa nearly sighed as well, knowing she would put him at risk, but seeing no other solution to her problem. There was no other who had a foot in each camp, no other who was honest and plain enough to be believed, to maybe survive. “I need you to find Lady Stoneheart for me, Ser Gendry, and bring her and all her men to Riverrun. To her childhood home, to her daughter… and hopefully to the end of her miseries. So she can remember her _family,_ her duty and honour, so she can find her long-needed peace… in her grave.”


	33. War council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grand summer of heavy rain, much work and great parties is finally at an end - the midnight sun long gone and the northern lights awaits. Thank you so much for your sweet comments during the holiday, it has kept my mind spinning and my passion for the story up, making me long to continue writing even though my days had no time for it <3
> 
> Here you go: A new twenty thousand words chapter for my patient, wonderful readers <3 <3 <3

The army arrived at dusk. Sansa’s messengers had reached Bronze Yohn not far from where Sandor and Jaime had demolished Petyr’s desperate effort to pull her back into his grasp. They‘d passed on her orders and turned to gallop straight back to the Inn at the Crossroads, cantering into the yard on sweat soaked horses with frost covering their manes, bringing back word of how the soldiers of the Vale were calling her the last Wolf. 

The wave of sadness that washed through her at hearing that had surprised her, even though such names were bound to be made up and she probably should be grateful for being called a wolf instead of a traitor to her family. Still… _The last Wolf… the last Stark._ The Stark without Winterfell or her wolves or her north…her family all dead, married to a Lannister in truth now for lack of a maidenhead to disprove it… Silently, she upbraided herself for letting such thoughts find their way to the surface at all, and buried herself in work - until Pia was close to tears at the small amount of time left to make Sansa look as near to her station as they could manage. 

The snowy world was cloaking itself in a new layer of frost as the sun went down and the long column started winding it‘s way out of the forest. Faint shouted commands drifted through the air as the army spread out in the fields, splitting into sections as torches were lit down the lines. And Sansa Stark stood clad in Lady Mallister’s dark green dress – wishing it were grey and white – as the large party of the lords of the Vale led by Bronze Yohn Royce himself rode through the low stone wall surrounding the inn. 

Wat and the stable boys rushed to hold reins and lead away horses, looking decent enough after having groomed themselves as thoroughly as they usually groomed the mounts they were responsible for. It made a good first-impression, quenching some of Sansa’s nerves – but only the Gods knew how the last hours had been spent drilling every tutored task to perfection. So, as the tired horses were disappearing into the stable without any fuss, quick youths were standing ready to carry saddlebags and equipment up to the owners’ rooms. All in all, everything flowed efficiently enough to make Sansa sigh silently in relief as the Lord of Runestone came walking up towards her. 

His light grey eyes took in every detail, a curious expression on his face as he watched her surrounded by something akin to a household up against the lonely state she`d been in the last time he`d seen her. He met Sansa’s eyes briefly before letting his gaze slide over her two sworn shields, standing utterly still on either side of her. He paused at Sandor, impassive and towering where he was placed as her commander, taking in Lord Vance and Lady Mallister with Ser Robin by her side. He looked at Lewys Piper, Garret Paege and Josmund Peckledon, lined up and looking like the lordlings they were for once, stuffed into worn silks and armed with not just their weapons but their coat at arms as well. 

Willow and one of the orphans named Saya stood dressed as close to maids as could be managed and weren‘t offered any attention, naturally enough. Still, the way Bronze Yohn’s bushy brows furrowed in professional scrutiny as his gaze swept over Sansa’s inner guard made their lady tense. But then, his eyes flickered just as dismissively over all the knights standing lined up in the yard together with the squads of men-at-arms before resting on her face again, meeting her eyes once more as he stepped before her. And knelt. 

It took all Sansa’s training to keep her face blank as that grey-haired man – large and gnarled and hard as oak, powerful enough to help end Petyr Baelish’s rule as Lord Protector, trustworthy enough to keep his word – went down on one knee before her in the snowy yard. The lords in his wake did the same, all of them, soundlessly except for the creaking of leather, the jingling of armour, their hands on the hilts of their swords and their heads bowed. 

_“I promise on my faith and by my house that I will be faithful to Lady Stark…”_

Sansa found herself standing there, surrounded by winter, listening to the words pouring out in unison from the kneeling men, feeling their oath of fealty etch itself into her skin, how the men became her responsibility. 

_“Never cause her harm…”_

Her chest ached and her throat burned in sudden grief for her father, her brothers.

_“Serve her to the best of my abilities…”_

The Lords Stark who would never again stand before their bannermen as they should. 

_“And defend her against all enemies in good faith and without deceit, from this day until the end of days, may the Gods be my witnesses.”_

As the last words died down, she couldn`t help but feel utterly small and inadequate… a mere woman for a heartbeat. Gods, what _had_ she put into motion? How could she believe herself good enough for this overwhelming task and the lords’ loyalty? She‘d been packed away in the Red Keep during one battle and hidden in the Vale for the rest of the war, after all. It felt like she had no right to stand in Robb’s place, no right to his men. _But I will bring peace to the riverlands, I will bring a united front to negotiate with the Targaryens and I will leave when my time here is done. To return home, to my north. I will do better, because I know how to play the game._

“Please arise, my lord,” she said, her voice distant somehow, as if it spoke completely of its own accord. Still, it sounded as clear and strong as the night that was falling around them, her mind honed to respond correctly to all formal situations even if her thoughts were somewhere else. “My lords as well.”

They did, brushing snow from their knees on their way up, giving Sansa a moment to recognize them all. Though lacking the ermine cloak he‘d possessed when ascending the Eyrie to negotiate with Petyr, Young Lord Hunter’s red cheeks and nose marked him out nonetheless. He looked as ready to start on tonight’s drinking as he probably was, but at least he was still alive, unlike his father… Gilwood Hunter’s younger brother must have found it better to lay low after his act of kinslaying when Yohn Royce and the Blackfish suddenly turned the Vale on its head.

“My lady,” Bronze Yohn said, his deep voice carrying, his supreme authority comforting when showing her such respect. _But dangerous if it turns against me._ “It gladdens me to see you safe and sound – your choice to reveal yourself brought forth a Stark amongst us again. We‘ve pushed hard to reach you, Lady Stark, and we`ve all given you our swords and our allegiance.”

Sansa inclined her head gracefully, forcing herself to breathe evenly as she raised her chin once more. “Thank you, my lords,” she said, to all of them, watching the ripple of bows and shifting of feet as they wondered how she would proceed. She clearly wasn`t the forlorn girl in hiding many of them had thought they would find, and that seemed to make them a bit… hesitant. _Good…_

Wallace Waynwood was there representing his mother as Lady Anya no doubt was too old to travel far in winter. And Lucas Corbray had shown up to drag his house out of utter disgrace… apparently. Sansa had never met the man before, but recognized Ser Lyn’s younger brother by the three ravens bearing red hearts on his surcoat. 

She knew Gyles Grafton and Terrance Lynderly, though, finding it odd to think that the last time she‘d seen them was at the tournament feast at the Gates of the Moon. Sweetrobin’s supposed squires had descended the Eyrie with them and had been kept as wards even after their lord had entered his dreamless sleep. The two boys were certainly released from that arrangement by now, and quite frankly, in Terrance’s case at least, she found it better to put up with a young squire representing his house than the real Lord Lynderly. _As sneaky as the snakes on his shield, that man…_

House Grafton had more than one representative, though. Lord Gerold Grafton, the lord of Gulltown himself, stood beside his son, making Sansa wonder vaguely what had actually happened between him and Petyr – his once lordly friend. But then her eyes wandered to what could only be Mychel Redfort and his wife Ysilla, Bronze Yohn’s daughter. Keeping her expression serene, she could only conclude that she understood very well how Mya had ended up giving her maidenhead to the tall, well built, roughly handsome and by all accounts _utterly_ competent young knight. 

_Please heal Mya, please get well so we can pillow-talk and laugh together again someday… I`m so sorry… I miss you…_

She let the lords of the Vale stew for a moment more, careful of looking comfortable herself as she let her gaze roam over every single one of them, looking for signs of impatience or other reactions that would shout disrespect for her status. She was surprised to see that Ser Edmund Waxley, the Knight of Wickenden, had joined the lords as well. But she was just as amazed to see a man who could only be Lord Uthor Tollett, the grey and black of his saw-toothed sigil looking as solemn as the middle-aged lord who carried it. Knowing House Tollett had lain preciously low on stating its allegiance before, Sansa instantly had a web of speculations ready as to why Lord Tollett had suddenly thrown caution to the wind. What were their words again? ‘When all is darkest?’ _Gods… well it‘s pretty dark in the riverlands right now, so it might be appropriate to show up after all…_

The houses Belmore and Templeton were missing, though, their absence confirming Sansa’s suspicions about the danger of Petyr’s payroll. Which of course didn`t surprise her at all, but still made her suspicious of half the lords represented… _The traps easiest to tread in are those right before your feet…_ Concluding that finding out and springing a few of those traps would be a good way to tie the other lords to her for true, Sansa smiled politely at them all.

“I will speak before your men on the morrow, when they‘re lined up and set for the journey to Riverrun,” she continued. “You all know the state of the ground we`re about to cover, and the low as well as the high need to know my gratitude and my intentions.” And to hell with what their overlords thought of that. Sansa watched as expressions turned puzzled, noting down the jerk of Ser Edmund’s head as well as Lucas Corbray’s nearly relieved half-grin; she knew she had been right. _Yes, your men will know what I expect from you from the oath you just swore. They will know the second they are fighting for traitors if it comes to that… never underestimate the power of the small men, Petyr used to say… and now I`m using it against him._ “As for now, be welcome and join me inside, we will eat and talk and share our wine – winter is here, but so is hope.” 

Long Jeyne opened the doors and stepped aside to let Sansa lead the entire procession indoors, the innkeep and her ‘kitchen-maids’ curtsying deeply to her as she passed into the clean, warm and brightly lit common room. The men crowded in behind her, relieving themselves of cloaks and unravelling the knots on their coats as the lords divided themselves from their attendees. The older orphans were waiting, lined up against the walls, carrying pitchers of mulled wine to be poured into the cups waiting in rows on both the head-table and the long-table crossing the large room. Their clothes were brushed as well as their hair, and Sansa smiled fondly at them for doing their best to look like well-trained servants even if every noble could see that they weren`t. _We need a livery to make the different origins of my motley southron household turn into a sense of belonging…_ Grey and white…or badges... new wolves… _Where are my true Wolves?_

It worked well, though. The grand old inn was the perfect backdrop to receive the lords and bannermen she needed to convince of her abilities as a ruler and not just a figurehead, especially when it seemed well-organized and close to its old splendour. It was all a matter of keeping them off balance to gain the upper hand, using the fact that she`d been held hostage as baseborn Alayne to her advantage as they were clearly unsure of how to handle her. Meeting Ned Stark’s daughter, the new Lady of Winterfell, as a woman who was comfortable in such surroundings instead of a cowed or frightened girl probably had half the lords on edge…

The white stone of the walls shimmered in the candlelight, new rushes covered the floor and the two large fireplaces were warming the room into feeling like pure, sunny heaven after standing still for so long outside. According to Long Jeyne, King Jaehaerys had built the inn during the construction of the kingsroad, and he and Queen Aelinor had apparently stayed there. Sansa could both imagine the old Targaryen royalty and their entourage being served luxurious food _and_ remember King Robert’s stay there as a layer on top. She could even vaguely remember Septa Mordane telling her something about all the kings and queens who`d frequented the inn over the years… but she‘d been too absorbed in Joffrey to really take anything else in… and then everything had gone wrong at the river… _Oh, Lady…_

She remembered Sandor’s hands on her shoulders before that had happened, though… strange how she‘d found them so comforting, safe – she`d thought he was her father for a heartbeat before she`d let her fear of his face overwhelm her… and King Robert had told her lord father to get her a dog to compensate for Lady. She‘d be happier for it, he‘d said… or so Jeyne Poole had whispered to her, having heard it from one of their household guards. By the Seven, she had been furious… _Well, I got my dog, father… you might not approve of him, but he makes me happy, he keeps me safe…_

Right now, her dog was glancing at her from where he stood behind his chair, looking completely like himself in his dark coat, its fabric cleaned and patched up as invisibly as possible after being cut through in the fight. He carried his weapons but wore no coat of arms, nothing to provoke anyone to make a fuss over his former allegiance. She didn`t even know if he _had_ anything with his house’s sigil on anymore… But of course, he could never hide who he was no matter how plain he dressed. Judging by all the staring from the newly arrived men, Sandor might as well have been standing there in his old soot-grey armour, leaning on his shield painted in Clegane colours complete with dog’s-head helmet and all… And Jaime… The Lion of Lannister himself… the one and only… _Please behave tonight, both of you._

The Lords Declarant and their representatives started seating themselves after Sansa had taken her place, flanked by the riverlords and the other lords of the Vale. The murmur of voices was nearly drowned in the stomping of boots and scraping of benches as Sansa’a riverlanders followed their example. The candles flickered in the draft from the door as the last men crowded in, and in a queer sort of way mirrored her rapidly beating heart. _Gods, calm down… this is not the time to seem the fainting, fragile lady._

Elder Brother had seated himself quietly where the head-table met the long-table, and looked with an expression of mild interest at the men around him. It felt comforting somehow to see that the dignified brother plainly wasn`t intimidated the least by it all. He behaved like this was just another night at her table, patiently starting a conversation with an extremely uncomfortable-looking Gendry, nodding interestedly at what the young forest knight muttered sullenly in return. 

Sansa waited until her soldiers, the orphans not on duty and the guards of honour from the Vale had all seated themselves, the sworn shields lined up like statues against the walls. Brienne stood behind Sansa’s chair with a line of her inner guards behind her, drawing several second glances as Sansa’s new bannermen started to realise that she was a woman. Brienne looked quite impressive in her armour, though, and the riverlanders she‘d sparred with for the last two days had obviously been beaten into a fair amount of respect for her, woman or not. Sansa could already see the glances from the soldiers of the Vale turning to curiosity as their new brothers-in-arms from the riverlands pointed and explained – and could only conclude that Brienne the Beauty, Warrior-Maid of Tarth, was in for some pretty rough testing soon.

She welcomed them all formally and acknowledged all the different lords and their houses, inclining her head to them all as a token of her gratitude for their support. She took great care in her posture, though, keeping her gaze level, a coolness to her demeanour telling clearly enough that they had still to prove their worth. Every little detail counted in convincing the lords right before her that she was in steely control, had the competence and maturity to rule wisely – lest half her council riot without knowing it for themselves, thinking they acted for the greater good by taking _responsibility._

The orphans were serving a steady stream of wine as the first course was carried in from the kitchens in polished pewter serving bowls. Long Jeyne had, in some mysterious way, managed to make three courses from their meagre supplies after they‘d turned the inn’s storerooms on end to find inspiration. Not surprisingly, Elder Brother’s delivery of cheese, cream, wine and salt from the Quiet Isle had felt like it was sent directly from the heavens when going through the empty cellars only hours before. 

It was actual soup instead of broth that was poured into their guests’ bowls with large ladles – cream, vegetables and herbs flavouring tender, white pieces of the small rainbow-coloured trout that lived in the river. It tasted quite simply of heaven, making Sansa reflect that she could very well see how Long Jeyne would make this inn shine on a daily basis once more. Making her understand why the innkeep loved it so much – how such a hard, young woman found struggling on the preference to leaving all she identified with, her self-respect, her _pride,_ behind. Give in to hopelessness. She only hoped the tough innkeep would survive the struggle, that the inn would stand unburnt at the end of this war as well. That spring would greet Long Jeyne and the toddlers with promises of an easier life.

Sansa was soon engaged in conversation with Bronze Yohn to her left, having been introduced properly to his daughter and Mychel Redfort. Thinking of Mya every time she looked into Ser Mychel’s green eyes, it felt queer to be unable to ask Bronze Yohn after her friend’s health in front of Mya’s former lover. Something in the young knight’s gaze told her plainly enough that he knew that she probably had knowledge of the affair, Alayne having been so close to Mya. But he was apparently just as gallant as rumoured, speaking politely and respectfully. 

He generally seemed a good-natured man, actually, laughing at getting confirmation of her being smuggled through the mountains disguised as a squire. Telling her how he`d heard it from Ser Andar, his good-brother, and that half the knights in their party had refused to believe it. Ysilla, for her part, had her father’s light grey eyes and intelligence, pretty enough to not look awkward beside her handsome husband, and laughed just as easily as he did. They seemed to have a happy marriage, arranged or not, so… why hadn`t Ysilla quickened yet after nearly a year as Ser Mychel’s wife? 

Another strange thing was that Sansa suddenly felt painfully aware of all the attention she was receiving even if she didn`t let it show. The pointed fingers and myriad conversations undoubtedly circling around her person kept on during the entire meal. It felt like a thousand gazes lingering on her all the time. Telling herself sternly that this was not like King’s Landing at all, Sansa nonetheless had to force down memories of standing alone against rumours and sniggers. It was stupid of course – these were her bannermen exchanging gossip and stories she`d even encouraged herself for the Gods’ sakes – but she hadn`t received this much attention from the higher echelons of society since becoming the Lannisters’ hostage, and it… _itched…_

Gyles Grafton and Terrance Lynderly kept sending her badly hidden glances as well, Gyles blushing scarlet when she met his gaze levelly, no doubt remembering the way he`d balked when she`d asked him to clean up the mess when Sweetrobin had thrown that chamber pot in protest to descending the Eyrie. _No scrubwoman, were you? Well, I was certainly not a bastard as it turned out…_

Sandor was trying hard to do what she`d asked of him, at least. He sat a few places down from Sansa, obviously trying to keep his temper in check, his eyes on his food and everyone else except her. He was keeping up their pretence and probably thinking he was behaving like ‘a fucking sheep,’ when he really looked menacing enough for two… 

He`d protested furiously when she`d told him that she expected him to keep his head down and mocking mouth shut for an entire meal; that he and Jaime were to eat at her table instead of the Lion standing guard and both of them eating with the soldiers like yesterday. Her very much loved but utterly annoying man had gone into a deadlock about not taking any shit from lordlings with balls the size of dried grapes. He`d growled that he didn`t give a damn about lords in general and that commanders belonged with their men until their betters wanted their opinions, making Jaime nod in merry agreement. _Damned comrades in arms._

He hadn`t backed down, either, until she`d explained that if she ever hoped to have the two of them fitted in with the other lords of her council, _without_ creating a mire of scheming to contradict the two of them whenever they opened their mouths… they _still_ needed to look leashed to her wrist. So, acting on Sandor’s raise of status, they were to be given places of respect, the Lion as his second in command or something equally…martial. And with that in mind she`d ended up chiming at him in no uncertain terms that he and Jaime both _would_ look tamed long enough to attend the very first council _without_ raising anyone’s hackles in any way… or Sandor could sleep on the floor.

So Sandor kept his head down, grumpy both for being restrained by his invisible leash and because his wounds probably still hurt more than he let on even to her. The latter made a deep longing grow in Sansa’s chest, needing to lie in his arms and hold him in return, wanting the sanctuary of his embrace instead of all the prying eyes she had on her at the moment. _Stop being foolish, I`m a leader – not a frightened girl anymore!_

Jaime, on the other hand, sitting further down the line, looked arrogantly bored at first glance. Until one noticed the edge to his wry grin, indicating quite clearly that his lion-tail should have been swishing in irritation over all the unfriendly attention he should have _known_ would be given him. _Really, Jaime…_ Lady Mallister was trying hard to smooth over his behaviour, at least, sitting beside him and conversing softly with Lord Gerold Grafton and Wallace Waynwood, looking perfectly composed and acting as though the orphans always behaved like well-trained servants. Sansa could have hugged her.

Long Jeyne had prepared roast wood grouse as the main course, with dark gravy and baked vegetables and small herb-buttered bread rolls on the side. It had emptied their carefully built stock completely, but was more than worth it as a hush settled over the room. For a long moment children, soldiers and nobles alike just utterly enjoyed such a treat where none had been expected. That was until an exclamation of how good it tasted was uttered and ten other voices joined in, ending in two soldiers loudly offering to duel for the cook’s hand and making Long Jeyne’s cheeks glow. 

It didn`t take long before the room buzzed with voices again, the wine from the Quiet Isle coming in useful as cups were held high to be refilled. Sandor was glaring utter contempt at the Knight of Wickenden after some eloquent boast, sneering something under his breath to Jaime that made the Lion laugh so all his white teeth showed. Until Sansa glared hard at them, that was. _Really!_ Gendry still looked like he wanted nothing more than to put two fingers in the air at them all, sullen anger starting to shine through as he shovelled food into his mouth without a touch of finesse. But _apart_ from that, the rest of her party seemed to honestly be enjoying themselves. _Thank the Gods…_

Sansa kept it light and polite throughout the meal despite her own growing impatience to start on tonight’s meeting. She spoke courteously, sipping her wine, smilingly putting the Lords Declarant at ease, but keeping her voice calm, her face serene. The nerves she`d felt at the beginning had completely disappeared somewhere along the way. She knew what she was doing after all, putting Petyr’s careful tutoring to work as her efforts to make the mood good for the council had their effect while keeping her integrity up at the same time. And her intelligence straight in their sight. Twirling men around her fingers, Alayne’s father would have said. _Playing the game._

Of course, soldiers and wine were undoubtedly the most wonderful combination if one wanted to raise the general mood of the room. She already felt strangely fond of her drab and armed riverlanders, smiling as they toasted everyone from herself to their long-dead grandmothers, wanting them to have a nice time. _They will probably be singing bawdy songs half an hour from now…_ Looking worriedly at Sandor, she was relieved to see that he`d kept his head clear without encouragement. He sat irritably answering the increasing flow of questions, though his rasping voice sounded more and more annoyed as the wine made the men around him bolder. 

It certainly didn`t help that Alyn had conveniently placed himself behind his self-appointed non-ser with a pitcher. The thin little boy was soon telling half the table about how Sansa’s two heroes had saved their lady’s life against what sounded like hundreds of knights. Sandor stared at the lad as if he were insane, but luckily remembered her command about letting their titan reputation grow instead of simply stuffing Alyn into an empty root sack and kicking him into a storeroom. Glancing quickly at her, he instead settled on looking positively affronted by the gesticulating and interested gazes coming his way, while Jaime just flashed his teeth at it all. 

They ended the meal with cheese and pickled berries, the demands for more wine breaking into roars of laughter and louder demands for wenches – which promptly made Long Jeyne count the older girls amongst the orphans and scrutinize the soldiers with a hard stare. Sansa decided it was time to withdraw before the whole common room erupted into the twin of the feast they`d had yesterday. She had a sneaking suspicion she was not the only one who`d lost her maidenhead to a soldier last night, and sincerely hoped Long Jeyne would keep on counting the girls around the men-at-arms…who many of them were mere youngsters themselves… _Gods, love affairs and plain fucking are the least we can expect I suppose… with the recruits mingling with the soldiers…_ But that was yet _another_ trouble for another day. _Piling up, aren`t they?_

The king’s bedroom had been stripped bare of furniture and remade into a comfortable room for the meeting they`d all been waiting for. Tables and chairs were set out in the middle of the generous space, maps and scrolls of reports lay piled, pieces which could be matched with the different houses’ colours stood lined up. Quills, ink and fresh parchment waited to be used, and water, wine and more cheese stood ready for a long night of planning. All this giving the quite correct impression that she had her expectations of them and intended to be the centre of her council. It only remained to bend them into knowing in their hearts that she _would._

The Lords Declarant and their representatives seated themselves on her right. Yohn Royce himself took the place by her right hand, uninvited, with Wallace Waynwood’s lanky frame beside him. Lucas Corbray, Young Lord Hunter – still clutching his wine cup from downstairs – and Mychel Redfort seated themselves seemingly at random down the table. 

The other houses of the Vale that had just sworn their swords to her, on the other hand, seated themselves more obviously in line of status. The slightly pompous and definitely well fed Lord Grafton sat beside Ser Mychel, a still nervously blinking Terrance Lynderly taking the place next to him. Edmund Waxley – who kept throwing suspicious glances at Sandor – followed, before Lord Tollett took the place at the end looking seven kinds of sorrow. He even managed to sigh gloomily for all to hear when his gaze fell on the stack of parchment-triangles marked in red-and-gold – looking as if all was already lost and that he simply sat there politely awaiting the headsman. _Mother have mercy…_

On her left, the riverlanders positioned themselves routinely by rank, making Sansa realise how comforting it actually felt to count the houses like this. Seeing Mallister, Paege, Ryger, Vance and Piper lined up and already belonging to her for true made her feel a swelling pride in herself and her people. Lord Vance had brought his two seconds in command as agreed earlier that day: Ser Ellery Vance and Ser Willis Wode looked equally hard and resolute despite their quite different appearances. The jagged scar crossing Ser Ellery’s gaunt face made him seem even graver in comparison to Ser Willis’s square form and habit of glancing at her breasts. 

Josmund Peckledon had been left in the common room together with Gyles Grafton and Ysilla Royce as they had no real place in a council, and Peck a westerman besides… Jaime’s presence was quite enough from the west, she reflected, the Lion only wanted here amongst them by her. And in fact, the only reason he was allowed there _no matter_ her opinion was because they all knew he`d given his life for her once already – if it hadn`t been for her reckless rescue of it... 

Elder Brother looked the embodiment of quiet dignity, Sandor hard and grim as the Stranger himself by now and Gendry sat staring sullenly at his social betters with defiance painted across his handsome face. In a strange way they made a sort of paired set beside Elder Brothers’ perfect calm. It fit, oddly enough – the two sets of heavy shoulders and bad attitudes on either side of the dignified robed man. _Even if Gendry suddenly looks small in comparison to Sandor’s massiveness…_

“I thank you all for your loyalty, for what has already been given and offered tonight,” Sansa started when they had all found their seats. “I have called this meeting to gather the information dispersed between us on the most pressing of matters, to give us a comfortable place to plan and exchange our thoughts on what lies ahead.”

“We are at your service, my lady,” Bronze Yohn replied in his deep voice, extracting nods and half-bows down the line, even if Lord Grafton tried to hide a yawn in his.

Sansa ignored the corpulent, balding lord and focussed on her own role. “I believe we are all in agreement that the Lannisters brought this war into being by beheading my father as a traitor,” she said, swallowing down the guilt and emotional chaos that always threatened to well up in her whenever she forced herself to remember that awful day. Something in Sandor’s expression changed and she met his gaze and saw… what? Dismay? Did he know about her running to Cersei? “My wish for this campaign is to force down the Lannisters and secure the riverlands politically, bringing peace and a chance for smallfolk and nobles alike to live to see a new spring, regardless of who rules from the Iron Throne.”

Bronze Yohn inclined his grey head. “Aims worthy of a queen, my lady. Supporting the riverlands and the last Stark is the reason the Vale raised its banners after all. Still, who rules from the Iron throne matters. There`s a foreign army at our doorstep that can`t be ignored anymore, two, if we`re unlucky – with a battle of succession to come if the Targaryens do not agree on who should sit that throne.”

His tone was perfectly polite, his authority clear as glass – and he could just as well have said ‘girl’ instead of ‘my lady.’ Sansa met his gaze levelly. “The Targaryens will not be ignored, my lord, but neither is it my war.”

The room went from the contented feeling of full and warm men with wine in their bellies to utter stillness at her last words. Eighteen pairs of eyes were staring at her as they tried to figure out exactly what she`d said, positioning herself so early. The expressions ranged from disbelieving to thoughtful as a truth or two of _priorities_ dawned on them. Sandor’s mouth twitched in amusement as he crossed strong arms over his broad chest and leant back, waking the rest of the council out of their thoughts. 

“So what you`re saying is that you will not involve yourself, us, in a war with the Targaryens? Or have you already sided with their rule as they`re not Lannisters?” Lord Grafton asked loftily, incredulity bordering on condescension as he brushed an invisible crumb from his spotless silk jerkin. The way he belatedly added ‘my lady’ only added to the slight.

Sansa looked at him coldly. “What I`m saying, _my lord,_ is that securing the riverlands and granting its lords the political alliance they want would stabilise the area and be the most important step I could take to ensure their survival.” She turned towards the line of river lords. “You have rebelled against two Lannister kings and the Lord Paramount of the Trident raised up by the Lannisters was thrown down with your support. As far as we know, Lord Edmure, my uncle, is still held captive at Casterly Rock, his Frey wife carrying his heir at the Twins, the riverlands profoundly ripped apart by this war. I can only conclude that you would prefer a Targaryen king or queen over Lannister rule any day. And if that is what you want, I`ll give it to you in return for these troubled years of loyalty and service to the Starks.” 

“Forgive me, my lady,” Lord Vance said quietly, the birthmark covering half his face looking soft compared to Sandor’s twisted scars further down the table, the riverlord’s sad expression annoying Sansa no end up against the vigour of Sandor’s anger. “But _giving_ us an alliance with a conquering king or queen hardly sounds… _rewarding._ ”

She could practically hear the suppressed snickers at that, and not even meant mean-spiritedly; only as exasperated headshaking over the young lady in their midst who had learnt her phrases but didn`t exactly know what they meant. Sansa simply smiled at the assembled men, feeling the tension go, letting soft chuckles lift into the air. Sensing Sandor’s grey gaze on her, knowing he was wondering what she was up to even if the rest of the table thought her a bit dense at the moment, she turned towards Lord Vance again.

“Really, my lord?” she asked. “How peculiar. I would have thought the lords of the riverlands, of all people, would see how dire their current situation is in the shadow of – quite rightly – a conquering king or queen. One of whom at the very least can scorch you out of your part of the Seven Kingdoms and give your land to their warlords instead.” She could feel her smile turn patronising of its own accord, but found it quite fitting. _No wonder this war went to the hells with not one head amongst them thinking longer than their swords…_ “Lord Royce,” she said, looking at Bronze Yohn. “Am I right in thinking the Vale quite safe for now? The mountain passes filling with snow as we speak and the remaining forces commanded to guard the coastline and look for leathery wings in the sky?”

“Yes,” Bronze Yohn replied, something that could only be mirth glittering in his eyes. _Some of you catch up fast enough, at least…_

“And Gulltown has made a massive income from trading food-supplies concealed as pepper has it not?” Sansa smilingly asked Lord Grafton, making the bulky lord’s eyes widen in shock for half a heartbeat before schooling his features into blankness. _You were right again Petyr… oh, the power of leverage._

“I`ve… The Merchant Guild… might have mentioned a _misunderstanding,_ my lady,” the lord of Gulltown had the nerve to say, earning sideways glances from the other lords beside him. 

“I`m sure they have, my lord,” Sansa answered sweetly. “And I`m equally sure that you would rather ship supplies and livestock to the riverlands than have such a black mark on both yourself and the grandest port of Westeros, yes? Being such an _honest_ trader.” Lord Grafton simply nodded, looking at her with a strange measuring in his eyes. Every port had its own rules and cheated on taxes and prices where it could, but to be _known_ to be doing so made every tradesman triple his start-prices, every bargain include the invisible profit. _And_ make the tax collector double what was written in the accounts. It would ruin him. Sansa smiled. “So, as I have an army from the Vale under my command and the mighty Merchant Guild of Gulltown at my disposal… we have the means to supply the riverlands with fresh soldiers and food, livestock to breed, seeds and sets for planting winter vegetables, all to create a new basis for life and living. By _my_ reckoning, that will make you too strong to be worth the trouble of putting down and simultaneously angering the north. I`m sure you`re starting to see the advantages, Lord Vance,” she said, turning back to him. 

“That would… certainly help, my lady,” he replied, actually inclining his head to her respectfully. “Even though we and the Lannisters have been stealing rations back and forth between our supply-trains somewhat routinely for a while now and half of our new livestock are bound to end up in Lannister cook-pots,” he added, something darkly humorous in his voice that actually made her smile back at him.

“Well, you`ve obviously been better at it than the Lions so far, my lord, since they`re at the end of their supplies now,” she replied, putting some warmth into her voice and nodding at Little Lew Piper as well. The redheaded squire grinned widely in return, Sansa knew he had harried Daven Lannister with every bit as much ferocity as his brother and Lord Vance had harried Jaime. It made the Lion himself snort somewhat amusedly at them both. “I`d hoped to make the livestock into something more than just rations, though.”

“And what would the Vale get out of this?” Bronze Yohn asked, still with that amused glint in his eyes, testing her as they both knew he`d given her his oath of fealty and was committed to her cause regardless.

Sansa grinned and decided to play along. “Hmm… perhaps I could free you from the endless harassment of the Mountain clans.”

“And how would _you_ manage what we have been unable to achieve for centuries, my lady?” the Lord of Runestone replied mirthfully.

“I`m the Halfman’s supposed wife, am I not? I know several chiefs and a thing or two you don`t,” she answered archly, making Bronze Yohn raise his hands in feigned submission and Sandor look like he would like to kill someone. Tyrion probably… Why _did_ Sandor loathe him so much? It couldn`t just be because of her unconsummated marriage to the man…

“Please, my lady,” Garrett Paege broke in, the deepness of his voice still startling Sansa as much as him opening his mouth at all. “Here and now, the Vale’s army and _it’s_ rations is what may turn the tide, not negotiations with the Targaryens or sprouts that won`t grow in winter.” He spoke slow and clear, but with true respect in his eyes, simply doing his duty in council; speaking his mind. “We have Riverrun, but precious little food. The Lannisters are split up, one part pressed against the Twins, the rest trying to reach home with no rations to speak of, dividing into bands as we`ve done.” He looked straight at her before taking a deep breath. “We also know that there have been commands from King’s Landing to get hold of you at any cost, so… we`re neck deep in trouble if the Targaryens decide to come at us if we don`t know where the rest of our enemies are or what they plan. We would end up flanked, fighting a desperate foe on one side and one fresh from the sea on the other... Not on my wish-list, my lady.” 

“And the Targaryens have dragons,” Terrance Lynderly said under his breath, glancing quickly at her under a fringe of straw-coloured hair, saying what Paege had not.

“Yes, so the stories say,” Sansa replied. “But those dragons need never be used against either the Vale or the riverlands.” _Still, even dragons had to have a weak point if it came to that._ For the first time ever, she suddenly felt the lack of her so-called husband. Gods, Tyrion had read every book ever written, more or less… if anyone knew, he would. “And that`s where I`m your strength.” _If I`m not stolen away by Lannisters before I reach Riverrun._ Just the thought, however ridiculous, made her nauseous. “For now, we need to create a formidable network of alliances to protect both of our interests. We need to get supplies from the Vale, gather the sons of the Trident to send the Lions home to fight dragons, and close the borders behind them. _And_ get Edmure Tully out of Casterly Rock to take his place as Lord Paramount.”

“You`ll let the Lannister forces go home?” Robin Ryger asked, the old captain of the guard at Riverrun sounding dismayed.

“Do you believe exhausted and half-starved troops trotting down the kingsroad to the capital will stand a chance against the Targaryens? I`m not giving them mercy – I`m buying us time,” Sansa answered, seeing Jaime close his eyes for a heartbeat.

“Are we even sure they intend to fight?” Wallace Waynwood asked the table in general, crossing long legs and looking around at them all.

“ _Yes,_ ” Jaime replied softly, making Sandor nod in agreement beside him. 

“No tricks up their sleeves? Not creation of an alliance with the Targaryens just to turn on us with dragons and ironborn bastards alike?” Waynwood kept on.

“They have King’s Landing packed full of Tyrells as well,” Ser Robin added thoughtfully.

“And in that lies their doom,” Sansa said quietly, getting everyone’s attention.

“Do you believe Mace Tyrell will turn on the Lannisters?” Bronze Yohn asked with shrewd directness in the pause that followed.

“No,” Sansa said with a chill smile at the assembled men. “Lady Olenna, the Queen of Thorns herself, will.”

For an instant the room was dead quiet. And then it exploded with opinions. Lord Grafton went so far as to laugh disbelievingly over Lord Vance’s demands to know how Mace Tyrell’s old mother could be a threat to the Lions. Lucas Corbray wanted to know her source of information while Lord Tollett told Mychel Redfort tiredly that old mothers generally were made to make life a living hell, though luckily enough it prepared you for the real, both frozen and burning, ones. 

And Jaime met her eyes briefly in the middle of it all, something truly aghast deep in his eyes before he shifted to stare unseeingly at the table top, his golden hand forgotten around the stem of his wine cup.

Still, Lady Mallister nodded thoughtfully, Elder Brother seemed in perfect agreement with her and Wallace Waynwood leant forward, waving down Lucas Corbray to make him shut up. Bronze Yohn simply looked at Sansa in renewed interest, calling for them all to be quiet and rescuing Ser Mychel from detailed descriptions of all the seven hells.

“I`m aware that Lady Olenna is considered a cunning old crone and that she is given deep respect from the members of her house. Still, Mace Tyrell is not a man easily dismissed,” the Lord of Runestone said as Willow and Alyn hurried to refill cups with wine.

“His mother calls him an oaf,” Sansa replied matter-of-factly, taking a sip of the vintage and remembering Petyr’s contempt for the man as well. “He serves as a figurehead for his house, letting the more intelligent members of it act through him. His sons apparently make his strategies in battles, having their say politically as well, and his bannermen and wealth are the only reasons he has any victories other than the Siege of Storm’s End to brag about.” She held the Lord of Runestone’s gaze unflinchingly, hearing the steel entering her voice at the memory of how she`d been manipulated so easily. “Olenna is quite rightly known as a cunning old crone, getting her way by pulling the strings from the shadows, ruling her house.” 

“With all respect, my lady…” Bronze Yohn replied. “Lord Mace Tyrell is the Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, and Warden of the South. He has vast military forces at his command, not to mention the Redwyne-fleet and gold enough to buy every sellsword and free rider in Westeros. To call him an oaf and dismiss his importance as a Lannister ally when his beloved daughter is married to King Tommen, _finally_ achieving his badly hidden goal of making her a queen… pardon me, Lady Sansa, but that is foolish at best.”

Yes, in fact, it did sound that way to a person with no inside knowledge of the Tyrells, Petyr’s role in making Margaery queen, or all the juicy details his eyes and ears had brought back to him and Alayne. “You seem to forget that I was in King’s Landing when the Tyrells marched in with Lord Tywin,” Sansa answered as her eyes held Bronze Yohn’s light grey. “That my place as the future queen mercifully enough was given to Margaery Tyrell right before my eyes.” _And thank the heavens for that._

That had their attention. Reminding them that she had once been meant to be a queen, and still had the claim to take Robb’s throne if she wanted it. That she knew the Tyrells on a first-hand-basis, that no one knew exactly how she`d escaped King’s Landing. _Yes, I turned into a wolf and walked straight through the walls, disappearing as the moonlight hit me… believe whatever you want, my lords, as long as it adds to the mystery, the truth isn`t half as exciting…_ “Do you really believe I wasn`t pulled into further intrigue in that nest of snakes?” she continued, contempt colouring her voice despite her every intention. “Do you really think that Lord Stark’s daughter, heiress to the north, wasn`t used as the piece I am in the game of thrones?” 

The room had gone impressively quiet. Bronze Yohn continuing to hold her gaze as her words hung in the air between them until Elder Brother leant forward in his mild mannered way, breaking the tension. 

“Please… I am myself well informed of both grand and seemingly insignificant details from King’s Landing before, during and after your time as a hostage, my lady. Still, I would be grateful if you would give us your view on why the Tyrells will betray the Lannisters when up against a common and in truth _formidable_ Targaryen foe,” he said calmly, humble but for the strength that radiated from the robed brother. _Clever man, soothing the lords’ pride and giving me credibility and respect at the same time… thank you…_

“Because of Cersei’s unwise efforts as Queen Regent to remove all Tyrell influence and authority from the court before she was arrested by the Faith. Because of her hate for and accusations of Margaery, and mostly; because Kevan Lannister, the only one with a clear enough head to create cooperation and peace between the two houses, is dead,” Sansa answered the room in general, using Elder Brother’s subtle way of supporting her instantly, noting how Jaime emptied his wine cup straight down _left-handed,_ his grimace afterwards obviously not for the taste.

The robed man smiled gently, but with a glint in his intelligent eyes that told her plainly that he liked her quick response. “I was of the belief that Cersei was very concerned for Margaery when she was accused of adultery and treason, defending her publicly even..?” he replied carefully, handing her another point. Truly, the man was a Godsend. 

“Of course she did, and at the same time handing the Faith several witnesses claiming the opposite,” Sansa said calmly.

“How… how do you know so much about Queen Cersei?” Terrance Lynderly asked hesitantly, making Edmund Waxley snort superiorly beside him, but really saying what half the table probably wondered.

“All three Kettlebacks were Petyr’s men,” Sansa answered softly, making Jaime hold out his arm for Alyn to pour him another generous cup of wine, looking positively sick. “Every little step she made down the road to disaster was reported directly to us.”

“What about the Redwyne-twins?” Elder Brother asked, nailing the next question in line with a shrewdness that made her already deep respect for the man grow.

“Not ours… probably Lady Olenna’s,” she replied. “Paxter Redwyne is her nephew after all, and his sons have certainly behaved as if they`ve been in Tyrell service all along… framing Tyrion for Kingslaying and innocently courting Margaery to prove her chastity.” 

“What has some women’s squabble to do with possible Tyrell treachery?” Lord Grafton broke in, sounding irritable. “Queen Cersei was humiliated into submission and Margaery Tyrell is now placed with some bannerman of her house, isn`t she? This is supposed to be a war council, not some gossiping group of washerwomen. We need to return to the matter at hand.”

Bronze Yohn sent him a flat glance. “I believe we _are_ speaking of the matter at hand, Gerold… please continue, my lady.”

And so she did. 

“House Tyrell was, as I believe you know very well, loyal to the Targaryens during the War of the Usurper, even defeating the future King Robert Baratheon at the Battle of Ashford.”

“Led by Mace Tyrell… giving King Robert his only defeat during the war…” Wallace Waynewood shot in, as if to contradict her earlier statements of Mace’s incompetence.

“No, it bloody well wasn`t,” Sandor rasped in return before Sansa managed to reply. “It was the Tyrell vanguard led by Randyll Tarly that smashed Robert into running. Lord Oaf wasn`t part of it at all. When we met the Baratheons after sacking King’s Landing they all said the same fucking thing.”

“We as in ‘us Lannisters,’ you mean, _ser?_ ” Edmund Waxley asked slyly, making Sandor grin menacingly back.

“I fought on the same fucking side of the war as you did,” he growled quietly, baring his teeth. “But I never turned into a buggering ser, _ser._ ”

“ _So,_ ” Sansa broke in before her council ended in a fistfight. “House Tyrell only bent the knee to the new king after my father had broken the siege at Storm’s End and the Targaryens were wiped out in the sack of King’s Landing,” she continued, her voice growing chill and clear as her next words hammered the severity of the situation into their heads. “The Tyrells will serve the capital of the Seven Kingdoms and the Lannisters with it to the conquering Targaryen forces as a welcome gift, and not a lion will see the threat before they stand lined up with knives at their throats.”

“Seven hells… what have you done, Cersei?” Jaime muttered nearly inaudibly into his wine, the rest of the room watching Sansa in silent unison.

“She`s given the Tyrells the perfect excuse to fall in with their former overlords, to call in their fleet and be the ready and _mighty_ political ally the Targaryen king or queen needs,” Sansa answered softly. “She`s given Lady Olenna every reason to plot the ultimate revenge for dishonouring her granddaughter.”

“Margaery is still married to Tommen, though… a Lannister king and a usurper in the eyes of the Targaryens. How can the Tyrells hope to avoid her execution as an imposter queen if she means so much to her family?” Leslyn Mallister asked with calm dignity, seeing the emotional hitch to the scheme. 

“King Tommen has never been anointed by the Seven due to Cersei’s catastrophic handling of the Faith. I would bet my best warrior on the Queen of Thorns deftly using that to free Margaery from yet another marriage, claiming it invalid as the agreement of Margaery becoming a true queen was never fulfilled,” Sansa answered, struggling not to grin at the affronted look crossing Sandor’s scarred face at being used as the wager and Jaime’s amused snort as he cast him a sideways glance. _If you only knew what we`re betting on for real, my love…_

“It… this is certainly worth taking into consideration, my lady… impressive… You have clearly used your time as Littlefinger’s protégée to your advantage,” Bronze Yohn said with his bushy brows slightly furrowed, his large, gnarled hands lying still on the tabletop, broad fingertips touching. 

“What about you, my lady? What happens to Winterfell’s daughter in all this? Where stands the north on the matter of the Targaryens?” Wallace Waynewood asked quietly from his place, measuring her with his light brown eyes.

Sansa met his gaze and held it. “The north. My lost north…” Somehow, the sudden rawness to her voice made her angry. House Stark had chosen its side, had condemned itself in any Targaryen eyes years ago. How could they forget that so easily? “The seven kingdoms rose up against Aerys’s madness. My lord father rode side by side with Robert Baratheon in a rebellion to save us all from a Targaryen rule,” she started anew, speaking low and clear and creating a hushed attention in a room full of nobles only just starting to realise that she might be young, but that she would be damned hard to manipulate or run over. “The north is no longer considered under the rule of King’s Landing.”

“So… you`re claiming the throne of the old Kings of Winter – you`re proclaiming yourself Queen in the North?” Young Lord Hunter asked, red-faced and already into his fifth cup of wine since getting upstairs, making Lord Tollett mutter something about how they were all doomed to die screaming on the pyre.

“No. I`m not proclaiming myself Queen, so far from home and with Stannis – the king of nothing – sitting in the ruins of my stronghold. I _am_ the lady of Winterfell, though, and any Targaryen would need to convince me of their competence to rule before I submit myself to the iron throne once more.” 

Bronze Yohn looked proud for a heartbeat, Sandor was measuring the other lords up with his hard gaze and Jaime sat spinning his eating knife in his hand, seemingly absorbed in what he was doing. The rest bowed their heads and murmured their ‘my lady’s.’

Sansa nodded at Willow, she and Alyn instantly starting to serve out another round of cheese and sliced, garlic-oiled bread rolls supplied with more wine and polite smiles. The diversion worked, and Sansa took charge while the nobles were still trying to understand exactly how she`d gained the authority to _make_ them follow her. 

She folded out the large map Elder Brother had supplied, putting the ornamental weights shaped like the Seven on the corners to make it lie flat. And then, having sorted out the Targaryen issue, simply sat to work, dragging her council into the current of her energy. Soon she had them all contributing and discussing every bit of information they could come up with on the Lannister forces in the riverlands. They put it all down on the map using pieces, notes, house-colours and arrows, and making Sansa grateful for Petyr’s training yet again. _How could you show me such high regard as a woman, Petyr? Teaching me to set and read war-plans like this, and still completely trample me as a person…_

It seemed like a light or two went on for a couple of the lords of the Vale as Elder Brother revealed his vast knowledge and well of information. He pointed out and corrected gossip in his deep voice, calm and mild, but was completely unyielding on the points he knew for sure as the truth. He also seemed to have a much more exact view on where the bands of Lannisters had been recently than anyone else –explaining it quietly as the accumulation of all the reports he`d received from Sparrows and Warrior’s Sons spread throughout the riverlands. 

And then Jaime stopped staring into his wine and shouldered in, tossing out all his knowledge of the plans behind the actions they were mapping out between them, ignoring the hostile glances he received. The Lannisters had clearly thought the war won after releasing House Tully of castle, lands and titles, as well as making Tytos Blackwood bend the knee, and well… so had the rest of Westeros. Daven Lannister had got stuck at the Twins, having been on his way to ‘wed and bed his stoat’ – or the Frey wife Tywin had forced on him to consolidate the Frey–Lannister alliance. In addition to ransoming the hostages useful to his house, that was, making Little Lew shift in his chair as he probably wondered if his brother was still alive. 

Now Ser Daven was trying to fight his way back to the main force, the Lannister army being spread out from Fairmarket to Maidenpool, trying to reach King’s Landing and Casterly Rock before it was too late to defend anything. Ser Steffon Swyft had had command of two thirds of the main force and Ser Kennos of Kayce commanded the last third. The hitch was that since the army had divided itself, nobody knew _precisely_ where they were, or who commanded the companies. Which was part of their plan, probably. Still, Jaime added the names of every commander and knight of importance he could remember, and together with Sandor described their attitudes, strengths and weaknesses.

Having mapped out their route to reach Riverrun without encountering every single band of lions still in the riverlands, the two of them then went on to plan the defensive strategies on the road there. Bronze Yohn and Lord Vance stated their thoughts with a confidence earned by their status and experience, Ser Mychel, Ser Robin and Little Lew joining in. The last three knew what they were talking about as well, apparently, as Ser Willis and Ser Ellery nodded in agreement and added in where their own forces were lurking. The way Lord Vance’s two seconds in command listed advantages and drawbacks was clipped and to the point, quickly marking off good positions for defence or ambush alike. The Knight of Wickenden remained silent, though, and all Lord Tollett had to add was certainty of a painful death in a ditch.

Still, it was quite simply enthralling to watch Sandor in military surroundings, where he so obviously belonged. Seeing him place arrows and talk about different formations, crossfire, trenches around camps and counterattacks while on the move, delaying defences and how to form efficient necks and traps… it was somehow more than a little exciting. Like watching him set the traps and skin the hares out in the wild, but on a grander scale. There was no doubt that he knew his trade, that warfare was so deeply ingrained in his being that it felt like breathing to him. He seemed to forget his earlier irritation, even grinned at Little Lew’s jape that _real_ hedgehogs would be just as efficient by now against the starved Lions as military ones, claiming the Lannisters would promptly sit down and eat the poor creatures the second they were thrown at them.

“Imagine that. We`ll just feather the bastards and move on, it`s brilliant!” he grinned, making Jaime tell him to go dress himself in pines so they could try it out.

Unlike Sandor, the Lion still looked like he had a quite bad taste in his mouth, increasingly drunk or not. He stubbornly kept on giving details, however, answering every question instantly. It ended up with him telling them the Lannister version of how the Red Wedding had been planned by Tywin, Walder Frey and Roose Bolton – which any idiot could have guessed, Sansa supposed. What he said about the Westerlings, on the other hand, simply made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Lady Sybill Spicer, the scheming old bitch, had quite an interesting conversation with me after Edmure had surrendered Riverrun. She was expecting her reward for the Westerlings complicity in your brother’s death, my lady. Just thought you should know…” He glanced at her, looking dragged in two directions and ashamed of being ashamed if such a thing was even possible… “I`ve no idea _how_ much her lord husband knows about her selling Robb Stark – the fucking King in the North and her own good-son– for a royal pardon and some marriages into my house to raise their own. Doesn`t quite rhyme, does it? Giving away your daughter’s status as queen in exchange for a baseborn half-lion for your son? Stupid cunt… Although I don`t believe she _quite_ knew what was planned to happen at the Twins as one of her sons supposedly was killed there, but still… you might want to add the Westerlings to your list of sweet revenge.” 

_Gods… poor Robb._ Sansa found herself staring at the twin towers marked on the map, wondering how her brother’s decision to marry, simply because it was the _honourable_ thing to do, could feel even _more_ useless. If the Westerlings had simply used him to gain Tywin’s favour… Had they deliberately pushed Jeyne into his bed? Had it all been for absolutely nothing? _Not even love…_

She didn`t know she`d spoken the last words out loud until Jaime answered her, voice strangely soft. “Oh, it was love, my lady… Jeyne’s heartbroken grief for her late husband was genuine, her sorrow for not even carrying his child quite wretched to behold, to be honest…She even fought her own mother to keep the crown he had had made for her.”

Sansa met his gaze. _She was his queen…_ “Was she allowed to keep it? The crown?”

“No,” her Lion answered, his grin forced. “And please don`t ask me where your _brother’s_ crown ended up either, the last time I saw it was on a whore’s drunken head.” Sansa didn`t know if she should strangle him or ask him to hold her as she cried, but he seemed to understand that he`d taken it a bit too far and threw himself into talking about something else. “About _Jeyne’s_ brother, now… I don`t really know if he`s dead or where his loyalties truly lie. Walder Rivers told me he gave up his sword meekly enough on command, but that he cut your brother’s wolf loose of the net that held him. Then he took one quarrel in his shoulder and one in his gut, but still managed to throw himself in the river…”

“If he`s alive and possibly on our side… What is his name?” she asked.

“Ser Raynald Westerling. I don`t know anything else about him, unfortunately,” Jaime replied, holding her gaze as he continued. “What I _do_ know is that I set twice as many archers to feather the Young Wolf’s widow if she tried to escape on the journey west than I set to watch your uncle Edmure… If her brother somehow managed to survive and brought her to you now, once they know where to find you – she would be a dangerous symbol of strength to be used against your foes.”

“She`s obviously been _used_ enough in her young life. If she ever needs sanctuary, though...” Sansa turned to Elder Brother. “Please make sure a message reaches her some way or another; say that my good-sister will always be welcome and safe with me.”

The robed brother nodded and Jaime trudged on with his obviously painful task of betraying his house, drinking evenly but doing his duty. Sansa actually felt quite bad for him, and once again wondered what had made him change allegiance in the first place. He`d told her his reasons, but never the process behind. _We really need to compare notes… the personal ones…_

There was no secret that, on a good day, the riverlanders found the fact that Jaime was allowed to breathe _at all_ in their midst a happy insanity. And his _squires_ had made no secret of the fact that they would make all hell break loose if something happened to the knight they still obviously thought themselves beholden to. 

Voiced or silent threats aside, Lord Vance managed to make disdain drip from the very air just by looking at her Lion place arrows from pieces with red and gold flags attached. It only increased tenfold when Jaime gave up on trying to write on the small notes made to stick in with the flags.

“Ah well, couldn`t even write properly right-handed, so… _you_ do it,” he grinned and took another swallow of his wine, shoving the strip of parchment, ink and quill in Sandor’s direction.

Sandor gave him a look flat enough to fell trees. “Do I look like a fucking scribe to you?” he asked in a low growl, but picked up the quill nonetheless.

“No, I`m frankly surprised you can write at all considering you grew up in a kennel, dog,” Jaime replied with a smirk, making the room go tense, even though Sandor’s mouth twitched in amusement instead of anger as the joke really was on Jaime – the son of Casterly Rock who apparently couldn`t write. _But they don`t know the difference in how his mouth twitches… we do…_ Jaime just grinned widely at them all, finally having had enough enmity for one day and having drunk enough to not give a damn about manners anymore. “Really! I know most of you hate me into marvellous little pieces, but please remove the pikes you`re all quite obviously sitting on, will you? It might lighten the mood somewhat.” _So much for behaving in public, Jaime…_

Lord Vance’s face had taken on an expression of crystal clear disgust, mirrored by his seconds in command, whilst the rest of the table looked from the riverlanders to Jaime and back again with varying degrees of annoyance and lofty disregard. Sansa sighed, but before she could open her mouth and calm down the situation, Jaime had opened _his_ mouth once more, emerald eyes fastened on Lord Vance and flashing his teeth as he leant back.

“Lord Vance, let’s get it over with – you look like you`ve swallowed your own coat of arms. Must be horribly uncomfortable. Was I really so ghastly to you at Riverrun? I can`t seem to remember this… _hostility_ from you back then, you see,” he said with steel in his eyes and mocking in his voice as he showed the riverlord his teeth, something definitely challenging in his whole appearance. Sandor squared his broad shoulders casually and fastened his gaze on Karyl Vance, daring him to answer wrongly. 

Sansa instantly felt like soothing everyone’s temper, reining in Jaime and asking Lord Karyl to keep his face blanker. But somehow she had the most peculiar feeling that it was important to let the men address some of the tension between them at this point, having managed to cooperate during the entire meeting. _Or Sandor will make Karyl pay for the rest of the war if he keeps on glancing down his nose at Jaime..._

Lord Vance could very well have had a couple of black dragons flapping around in his stomach by his expression, might even have had a couple of golden rings and eyes stuck somewhere too. But the way he sighed quietly before meeting Jaime’s slightly bloodshot gaze with a hard one of his own spoke volumes. 

“I`m here as Lady Stark’s bannerman and ally. I respect my lady’s… _unusual_ choice of sworn shield, and will therefore not discuss our earlier acquaintance, ser.” 

“Quite understandable. No need for you to disgrace yourself, though, I`ll do the talking.” Jaime replied nonchalantly. Lord Vance simply cocked his head and looked at him in mock interest in return, making the Lion widen his grin. “As your more _intense_ dislike for me has appeared _after_ I went into our lady’s service… I can only conclude that the reason for it is that I topped my honour’s _spectacularly_ questionable reputation by turning my cloak. Betraying my house like I betrayed the first king I served.” 

Those intense green eyes were locked to Karyl Vance’s, the unyielding way her Lion seemed focussed on his prey contrasting hard against his soft tone as he continued, somehow making him sound even more dangerous. “I can still feel my sword slide into Aery’s back, did you know that? Just… _so easy,_ only skin and bone left of him at that point.” He grinned so arrogantly that even Sansa was tempted to wring his neck, but he rolled on like a boulder. “I`ll be called the Kingslayer for the rest of my days because of what I did, doing _you all_ that favour in service to House Lannister… and I`ve turned my cloak, turned my back on my own, powerful house. At least _try_ to think what that might mean, my lord. Has it never occurred to you that there might be a _reason_ I took Riverrun without taking up arms or shedding blood? Well, apart from backhanding Ryman Frey of course, but that hardly counts…”

Lord Vance broke their locked gaze and glanced at Sansa. “Would you like me to answer this, my lady?”

“I`m intrigued, yes, go on,” she replied, because she really was, looking at Jaime and trying to hide her surprise.

“No,” Lord Vance answered promptly, “because of the simple fact that making Edmure Tully yield Riverrun was the only way you could have taken the castle without severe losses to your forces. The forces _you_ needed to get safely back to King’s Landing instead of ending up with a rope around your neck like Ryman Frey did. You`ve never done an unselfish act in your life, Kingslayer, killing off the first king you were sworn to protect least of all. This was no different. Besides, do you _really_ believe we would not have dragged it out? Misunderstood orders? Accidentally gotten the ramparts and towers stuck in the mud? The riverlords who bent knees never bent their necks, ser, and there`s always fish in the river.”

Jaime chuckled wryly, giving up on explaining himself and breaking some of the tension. “Ah yes, you riverlords were such charming allies on that matter, weren`t you? I remember instantly throwing away the thought of enlisting you to search for the Blackfish as you were more likely to help him escape than clap him in fetters, as I recall. _Despite_ your oaths.” Both Vance and Piper grinned; Lord Karyl coldly at the slight and Little Lew widely enough to nearly split his face in two. Jaime’s squire or not, it obviously didn`t count much up against rebellious pride, Sansa concluded. “Bastards,” Jaime snorted, shaking his head. “If such an occasion ever arrives, I`ll thank both Edmure and Brynden Tully for making it easy for me as I`m sure I would have pulled out my hair in frustration over you soon enough. Gods, one war council with the infamously horrible mix of Freys and Fish was quite enough…” 

He dragged his fingers through his golden curls, unconsciously touching his head-wound, and glanced at his equally golden hand. “Bring a skin of wine or two and come talk to me if you ever want to know the true reason for keeping the bloodshed at bay. I might yet surprise you.” He looked piercingly at Lord Vance. “Because if you believe that Strongboar, Daven and the others would have shown mercy when taking the castle, or _afterwards_ for that matter… you`re quite simply dead wrong.” He sounded so sincere that it nearly felt awkward for a moment, glancing up at Brienne with something unreadable in his eyes before getting a grip and grinning cockily at Sandor. “About that, Ser Lyle wants your head. Sorry, I`d completely forgotten it until now.”

Sandor grinned dangerously in return. “He can queue up with the rest, the fat hairy pig.”

“Not _that_ fat,” Jaime replied as Sansa returned her attention to the map now that the verbal scrapping was done, wondering how to bring the talk around to the last important part of this council. “Hairy though…”

“Admit it, he looks the image of his coat of arms, Lion. Strongboar, my arse…”

“That`s… quite enough,” Sansa said softly, fastening her gaze where Brienne had placed the piece marked ‘the Hollow Hill’. “I need your heads on the Brotherhood Without Banners and Lady Stoneheart instead of boars.”

Gendry raised his head from his scrutiny of his wine cup and Sandor furrowed his brow, clear blue and grey eyes fastening on her with equal intensity as she informed her council that she wanted her undead mother brought to Riverrun peacefully. And that Gendry would be the one sent to parley with her.

“All of you who knew my mother know that she would _never_ have committed the actions of Lady Stoneheart. My last honour to her will be to treat her men with respect, judge them justly – and free them from the… _corps_ that commands them,” she said, trying to sound calm, but hearing the sorrow in her own voice. “Ser Gendry has given me his testimony on the changes brought by her, as opposed to Beric Dondarrion’s idea for the original Brotherhood’s role to protect the smallfolk against men like the Mountain.”

Sandor looked like he had several less complimentary things to say about that, but managed to restrain himself by a hair, helped somewhat by Jaime pointing Alyn over to pour more wine into his comrade’ s cup, shoving it into Sandor’s large fist. Sansa shot Willow a warning glance when she concernedly started forward with water. Which Sandor noticed, _and_ misunderstood, making him lock his gaze to hers as he threw his wine straight down faster than Jaime had managed on his first round. _Oh, Gods… anyone else who`s in severe need of drinking wine like water tonight?_

He stopped at that, thank goodness, naming several good riverlanders who might have the guts to follow Gendry on his quest instead of drinking himself senseless. In the end they decided to send four soldiers with him, enough to make certain he reached his destination and too few to be considered a threat to Lady Stoneheart. _May the Gods forgive me if she hangs them for sport… But, if the Gods existed, they shouldn`t have let her hang half the riverlands in the first place._

Another thing she didn`t say out loud was the reason for Gendry being in her council at all tonight. If her undead mother decided to press him for information, he would have it. _Please have the brains to remember what`s been said._ Having attended the council he`d heard her plans for the riverlands, giving the Brotherhood Without Banners no reason to struggle against her. She was here to create peace and get rid of the Lions, to crush the Freys to dust and make sure the smallfolk survived. And she _was_ Lady Catelyn’s daughter. 

If there was even a small part of Lady Stoneheart that was still her mother, she would come. Sansa was sure of it.

They finished up quickly after that. Sandor would take the defensive strategies further with Lord Vance, Ser Willis and Ser Ellery, Ser Robin and Bronze Yohn himself. The soldiers would be drilled into knowing every command-line and code word. Lord Grafton would write his messages to get heavily armed ships sent down the trident carrying whatever Sansa wished. He even agreed to send for supplies across the narrow sea as well, especially hay and grain for the new livestock. 

“Pardon me for asking, my lady, but…” Lord Grafton muttered as he added his numbers down the long list of supplies, sweating in his silks but looking like he`d finally decided to show why he`d been a good lord of Gulltown for so many years. “Who will guarantee the gold needed to _pay_ for all this? It will cost a fortune even with our ships sailing under your banner for free.”

Jaime sighed and started digging around in his pockets for his signet, but Elder Brother made a calming movement of his hand, meeting Lord Gerold’s eyes before Sansa managed to intervene. “The Gods will provide,” he said quietly in his deep voice. “The Faith of the Seven gain new followers every day, their alms should go to the ones who need it most. Stabilising the riverlands with our funds would be considered gods-given charity by us. I guarantee it.” 

Sansa thanked him politely as that was only appropriate, but silently felt a small ball of anxiety form in her belly at the thought of being tied too closely to the Faith. She had seen the power Cersei had unleashed spread like wildfire through the kingdoms, heard the rumours of how the numbers of Sparrows and Warrior Sons had exploded. _This is not something I will be a part of… I can`t even truly believe in the Gods they use to justify their actions anymore._

Still, she couldn`t do anything else than nod gratefully when Elder Brother said he would confer with the High Septon to find out more about the arrested Redwyne twins, and a possible connection between Paxter Redwyne and Cersei’s brand new and missing fleet. Olenna was a Redwyne after all, and even though Aurane Waters had no obvious connection to Lord Paxter, it went against all reason that the Grand Admiral and Master of Ships had absolutely no idea where a complete fleet had disappeared to. _And a Redwyne fleet reinforced with the queen’s ships is_ not _something I want sneaking up on me…_

The common room sounded like the most vulgar wedding feast ever held as Sansa and her council left the room, bawdy songs and roars of laughter nearly drowning out the music from downstairs. Piper and Paege instantly trotted down the staircase enthusiastically, followed closely by Terrance Lynderly and Mychel Redford. Lady Mallister, on the other hand, excused herself and went quietly into her room. Lord Tollett complained about several symptoms of horrible conditions – that would _hopefully_ kill him faster than what awaited in the riverlands – and went to bed as well, while the rest of her bannermen started downstairs to try to keep the soldiers from drinking themselves completely to mush. _Too late, my lords._ All except Young Lord Hunter, who wobbled after them to join the men-at-arms in their quest.

Sansa for her part called in her sworn shields, asking for a word in private as the lords and knights trailed past. Unceremoniously, she walked into Sandor and Jaime’s bedroom as she spoke, counting upon the fact that the whole inn was used to them using it as a solar by now. And closed the door. Finally alone with the only ones she trusted completely in the world. _My ragged pack._

“Seven save me, that was… _fabulously_ horrible,” Jaime said drily, looking drunk and tired, breaking the exhausted silence between them as the door shut out most of the noise from downstairs. 

Sansa was about to answer something soothing when Brienne moved hesitantly, laying her arm around the Lion’s waist and kissed his cheek softly, quite simply lovingly. Giving him a token of support none of them had expected, Brienne least of all if her blush was anything to go by. 

Sansa felt stunned. Like she and Sandor had walked in on the most personal moment of all time. Really, Brienne had _never_ done such a thing openly before. Never. Jaime stared in surprise at her as well, lifting his new sword-hand to touch her scarred cheek in return. And kissed her gently on the mouth, emphasizing that she was taller than him without making it seem strange in any way. 

“Go fuck somewhere else,” Sandor growled out of nowhere, destroying the tender moment and making Sansa glare at him, vexed by his bluntness, as he lowered himself carefully down on his bed.

“Sandor, be _quiet..._ Gods!” she exclaimed, making Jaime laugh and shake his head. But he was looking at Brienne like he`d just received the greatest gift he could have wished for. 

“ _What?_ ” Sandor rasped in return. “This is _our_ room, for fuck’s sake!”

“I would appreciate it if you would let small moments of happiness pass by without ruining them,” she replied indignantly. “You`ll be standing on the battlefield soon enough all three of you, I might… might loose one or all of you, and… can`t you just understand that showing affection is a _good_ thing?” He looked at her as if she`d grown tentacles. “Never mind,” she murmured tiredly, feeling herself deflate completely, all her energy spent. 

She turned away from him, forcing herself to take on the last task of a long day, already going through the meeting in her head so she could evaluate it quickly together with the three of them. And was completely taken by surprise when she felt Sandor’s strong hand close around her wrist, tugging her roughly into his lap. 

“Stop squeaking,” he grumbled when she spluttered at being handled like that, shifting his weapons out of the way so she could settle up against him. “I`m showing you bleeding affection.”

“And… _this_ the best you could come up with?” she asked exasperated, turning to look up at him and stroking the hair out of his face out of habit, placing it behind his ear. “Treating me like a tavern wench?”

“Apparently, yes,” Jaime replied wryly from the side-lines. “But no serving wench has ever been allowed to scratch his ears as far as I know…”

“If people aren`t allowed to call _me_ a wench, Jaime, you certainly shouldn`t compare Sansa to one,” Brienne said on top of Sandor muttering something indecent about where _the Lion_ could scratch himself. “You were admirable tonight, my lady… truly!”

“Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa replied, her tired mind belatedly starting to make her feel grateful for Sandor saying that he cared for her out loud as well, even if telling him so probably would make him ruin that too. “Do you all agree on that? Or are there things you think I should have done differently? I really want to know if there`s anything you saw that I did not.”

With the exception of Jaime suggesting that she could tell Lord Vance to burn merrily in hell instead of attending any future councils, the three of them seemed pleased with her effort. So, as Sansa disentangled herself from Sandor and sat down beside him, Jaime and Brienne seated themselves a bit too close on Jaime’s old bed. And then they rapidly listed things of importance that hadn`t come up during the last few hours, trying find connections and pitfalls that hadn`t been discussed. 

Sandor pointed out that they needed more information on the whereabouts of the ironborn and their connection to the Targaryens. He also brought up that they knew next to nothing about what was happening in the north, or Stannis’s plans now that the Boltons had been extinguished. Gods, Stannis couldn`t really _believe_ what his red witch was supposedly saying, could he? It was utterly impossible for him to take the Iron Throne now, his principles less than smoke up against a pair of Targaryens and what seemed to be three live dragons. And then there were the rumours about Stannis’s involvement in the Night’s Watch… And Jon’s role as Commander… Whether he was dead or not…

”If we`re talking about brothers, Sansa…” Jaime broke in as if he had suddenly remembered something. “You said earlier that one of the Redwyne twins _framed_ Tyrion for murdering Joffrey. Not… you know… simply giving witness to the incident?”

Sansa met his emerald gaze and felt goose bumps prickle her skin. “Don`t you..? No, of course not… he disappeared… but I always thought… You were _there_ , in King’s Landing, when Tyrion escaped from the black cells. Wasn`t it _you_ who helped him? It certainly couldn`t have been Cersei!”

Jaime glanced at his hands before meeting her eyes again. “I… he`s my little brother…” he said, giving her a half-grin as if that explained it all.

“Who you actually believed had murdered your own son,” Sansa continued.

“Yes,” the Lion replied with a hard glint in his eyes. “He told me so himself.”

“And you let him go?” she asked, trying to envision the impossible scene he was describing, not wishing Joff back to life in any way, but still...

“ _Yes._ Joffrey was my son, but I was never his father. And he turned out to be nearly as mad as the king I slayed,” Jaime replied quietly. Steely. All too clearly for his state. And Sansa suddenly saw a glimpse of what honour _actually_ meant to the man who had forsaken it so thoroughly. How he could meet her eyes and tell her that his firstborn son deserved to die made a piece of the puzzle fall into place for her. He`d killed a tyrant himself all those years ago, knew that he would never be applauded for it, and still thought the decision right after all those years.

“Tyrion didn`t kill him,” she said honestly, taking a deep breath and feeling shaky to be talking of something that had been so thoroughly hidden inside her for so long. “Olenna Tyrell killed Joffrey. She was the only one who touched the strangler crystals in my hairnet disguised as amethysts. She planned to frame _me_ with regicide.” She would have succeeded too, if I hadn`t been spirited away by Petyr, unable to be myself because of it. Always the brilliant planner, aren`t you Lord Baelish? “Still… I can`t say I blame her for wanting the sadist marrying her granddaughter dead. It was for Margaery’s safety, after all.” 

“But you _did_ take part in choking the nasty little shit, then?” Sandor rasped, reminding her that he`d been hired to guard Joff’s life with his own for years. The look in his eyes as he turned her face up so he could lock his grey gaze to hers was somewhat impressed as the Lion whistled softly between his teeth. “Bloody hell, Little Bird... two Kingslayers in the same room.”

“No!” she replied hurriedly, forcing her exhausted brain to cooperate enough to see how her statement had sounded. “I didn`t know anything about it. Ser Dontos gave me the hairnet and told me to wear it at the wedding feast. But _he_ was employed by Littlefinger as it turned out, so it`s Petyr who stands equally responsible.”

“And my brother hadn`t anything to do with it,” Jaime concluded tiredly from his bed, cutting short Sandor’s grumble about what the hell Ser Dontos had to do with anything. Mercifully enough. _There`s an explanation I would hate to give tonight…_ “Why did he say so, then?”

“I don`t know,” Sansa replied softly, never really having understood why Tyrion did anything at all. His twisted moral and selfish behaviour had always clashed with the not-quite decency and glimpses of true kindness he`d frequently shown. _I never cared to get to know him either, too far gone into mistrust and fright as I was._

“Maybe Varys knows. Fucking Spider,” Jaime yawned drunkenly. “Might as well say so – he had a hand in Tyrion’s escape as well, reluctant or not. Trenches and tunnels; treacherous things. Imagine that Tyrion climbed right up and shot our father, though. Takes some guts, to be perfectly honest…” Sandor actually laughed at that. 

When they started talking in circles about what _Varys_ had possibly arranged of events – who he really served, and what the ever-enduring Spider could gain from the chaotic state of Westeros – Sansa called it a day and wished Jaime and Brienne goodnight. They were completely drained, all of them, and tomorrow would be even more exhausting.

She shut out the hopelessly out of tune roars of ‘Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass’ and turned from the door, watching the way Sandor sat leaning forward, staring at his unlaced boots as he unconsciously stroked his hand over his left side. He quite frankly looked ready to drop down and sleep on the floor. Crossing the room, Sansa didn`t know if she should be worried, insanely in love with him, or both, especially when she reached him and he just tiredly let her cradle his head to her breasts.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, kissing his hair.

“Don`t want to think about it,” he replied gruffly and pushed her away. “Don`t worry, it`s healing pain.”

“Sandor…” she started, unable _not_ to worry. “I can…”

“Fuck me away from it all?” he interrupted with a wry expression, but with an edge to his voice that sounded like he would really appreciate it if she did, making her body respond even if her brain kept it sensible. 

“I was going to say ‘help you undress and bring you mulled wine if you like,’ as you clearly need rest,’” she answered, stroking gently over his heavy shoulder.

He looked incredulously at her. “Which man would want mulled wine if he could have a warm woman instead?”

“I believe half the lords spread around this inn believe me made of ice and rock by now and not warm at all,” she grinned back.

“Gits,” Sandor muttered, dragging her towards him. “It`s plain as hell that you`ve so much fire in you that every single one of the buggers probably wants to fuck you senseless.”

“Don`t say such things! Gods! They`re my _bannermen_ for heavens’ sake!” Sansa said, embarrassed, laying her arms around his neck.

“They`re _men,_ ” Sandor replied flatly. “Get used to it. And… I`ll _try_ to keep myself in check around them when they`re leering at your arse…”

“Yes, try that will you? As I`m in severe need of their support. You savage…” she murmured, kissing his mouth and starting to unbuckle the swordbelt crossing his chest, judging him well enough for some light exercise if he could talk of fighting like that.

He parted her lips eagerly with his tongue as his hands went right down to the bottom her bannermen apparently found so interesting, squeezing it and stroking tightly over her, making lust prickle through her immediately. The swordbelt came loose and sword and scabbard fell down onto the bed as her hands proceeded to the knots holding his coat together. _His_ hands simply hoisted up her skirts, grabbing her hips and turning her before pulling her firmly into his lap again. Sending hot flashes of burning lust up her spine as his hardness caressed her with only his breeches and her smallclothes between them. Which Sandor knew all too well, probably being the sole reason he did it, making him grin as his lips caressed her neck when she rubbed herself against him in instant response.

“If I`d known how bloody much you like to feel my hard cock pressing against my laces, I might not have tried to hide it so much over the mountains,” he murmured, his breath on the shell of her ear making goose-bumps prickle down her neck. “Fuck, I could hardly walk for want of you.”

Somehow, that admission flew straight home. Burning arousal flooded her at thinking he`d walked around frustrated and needy for most of their journey, as in love with her as she`d been with him. Maybe even more… as he`d been _sort of_ in love with her for years and actually knew what he was missing to boot. 

“When?” she whispered, playing their sharing game as his hands found her laces, aching for them on her bare breasts as she raised her arms behind her and folded her hands around his neck. “You were so closed-off, always sleeping with two hands between us, never touching me unless you had to.”

“And why did I do that, do you think?” he replied mockingly, bucking his hips slightly up against her as her laces came loose, making her gasp in desire. “Held you once, though… _twice,_ for fuck’s sake. With painful consequences.” 

She laughed low in her throat at him, turning her head to kiss his neck and receiving a low groan of pleasure as she licked the salt off his skin, inhaling the intoxicating smell of him. “I remember waking up in your arms that first morning,” she breathed, rolling her hips in his lap, rubbing her bottom up and down his shaft, making his head drop as he exhaled sharply. “You were so large and strong and _safe,_ engulfing me in your arms like that.”

He laughed his hoarse laugh into her hair, tugging her dress open, but didn`t start on the strings of the bodice beneath. He simply left her half-clothed and stroked his thumbs lightly across the underside of her breasts through the thin fabric still covering them, creating thudding flashes of arousal shooting directly down between her legs. 

“By the Stranger’s balls, you`re the only one who adds ‘safe’ when describing me,” he answered breathlessly, making Sansa dimly reflect that he was dangerous in more than _one_ way as she arched to make him touch her.

He didn`t caress her nipples like she wanted. Instead, he groaned softly through gritted teeth when she spread her legs wide, making her pant into his neck as he hitched her skirts higher. Anticipation made her desire surge as he stroked lightly up her thigh until long fingers caressed her just as feather-light between her legs. Her smallclothes made such a silky barrier between her aching womanhood and his calloused fingers that somehow it only heightened the sensation.

Suddenly remembering that it was polite to _reply_ at least, when someone said something to you, she tried to collect her wits enough to remember what she was supposed to reply _to_. “Well, that`s what you make me feel when you embrace me like that,” she murmured dazedly into his neck. “Safe. Always.” 

He drew a ragged breath, fingers curling, pressing against her entrance for a heartbeat, moistening the thin fabric in between. “Do I? What does _this_ make you feel then?” he rasped under his breath, letting his teeth graze her jawline as his large hand squeezed her breast gently through the bodice of her smallclothes, his fingers between her legs shifting to circle lightly over her nub.

“Incredibly aroused,” she gasped, tilting her head so she could kiss him on his mouth, his tongue finding hers immediately. Sandor groaned raggedly as she twisted in his lap, arms changing position around his neck as she swung her stockinged leg over his thigh so she could straddle him, ending up in a tight embrace. She scraped her nails over his scalp as his hands tugged at the ribbon holding her hair away from her face, moving against each other as their soft noises of pleasure and desire lifted into the air of the room. _Thank the Gods for drunk and singing soldiers…_

She dragged his coat gently off his still injured shield arm and started on the laces of his tunic before loosening the knot that held his scarf together, unwinding it so she could look at the purple bruise her teeth had left on his neck.

“It… I`m sorry, Sandor,” she murmured stroking her fingertips gently over it.

“Why?” he panted. “I like being marked by you.”

“You do?” she replied breathlessly, kissing him.

“You`re with me of your own free will, aren`t you?” he asked mockingly, making her grin and give him wet kisses up his neck in answer. “If you hadn`t been so bloody highborn, I would have been cheered through the common room for that bruise,” he groaned, grabbing her hips and pressing her hard down on him. “Although for slightly different reasons than why you gave it to me…”

She laughed softly at him and the strange ways of men in general, pulling off his tunic as carefully as she could, revealing his absolutely _magnificent_ upper body, making her nipples tighten and a soft moan escape her lips in heavy want for him. “I would not have believed you the type,” she gasped. “Randa had a knight who liked a proper beating with his own belt, though…”

“Randa?” he panted a bit absently. “No, _fuck…_ how do you even know about such things at all? _Randa,_ bloody hell… Shut your innocent, highborn mouth before _I_ spank _you_ for being as filthy as the rest of us.”

Sansa swatted his shoulder and looked sternly at him before finding her priorities again, her fingertips following the evidence of what he`d given so freely for her sake. She traced the pink flesh of his new scars over his muscular sword arm, stroking tightly over his massive shoulder, digging her fingers into it, before licking up under his ear. “ _That_ you would do only once,” she muttered as threateningly as she could. “You could never get drunk again in fear of what I would do to you the second your guard was down.” She grinned, sucking gently on his earlobe, feeling his hips buck in reaction to what her mouth was doing to him and how it crashed with his mirthful response to her words.

“Insane woman…” he snorted, pushing her smallclothes down and cupping her breasts, leaving her groaning against his skin as he moved his hands oh so deliciously. “That would be a sight for the Gods to behold, me trying to fend you off without hurting you, too drunk for my own good, while all the time you`re trying to beat me with my own belt.”

“I`m already looking forward to it. In fact, I`ll prepare myself by continuing my education in how to remove your belt as smoothly as possible,” she gasped breathlessly, pressing her breasts into his hands and receiving a ragged groan in return as her hands relieved him of the belt resting on his hips, complete with knives and dagger. “But if you`ll excuse me, I need you naked and too aroused to talk about it anymore, right now.”

Muttering that she could blame herself for bringing it up, he simply dragged her with him down on his back and turned them onto the side. Hurriedly kicking off his boots and pushing her dress down over her hips, he hooked his thumbs into smallclothes and stockings, rolling them all down her legs with suspiciously good technique. She cooperated enthusiastically, though, getting rid of her own shoes in a way that would have made her septa turn in her grave, her tongue sliding against Sandor’s, hearing him moan as she unlaced his breeches. 

The hot and heavy feeling of his cock in her hands and his sharp exhale made her go embarrassingly wet between her legs. The way he took her wrists and _removed_ those hands from his rock-hard member confused her until he muttered that it was her turn to get something for free. But his sighs and soft groans still inflamed her no end as he moved in need when her hands stroked tightly over his muscular bottom and up his back. His reactions to being touched by her felt so good, that he wanted to please her made her positively squirm in need for his attention and competent fingers as the last garments were discarded as fast as possible.

“Touch me,” she whispered pleadingly, needing it to be her turn _now._

“Fuck me, but you`ll bloody well beg for my cock before I`m done with you,” Sandor rasped breathlessly with a tinge of his old, mocking menace.

And stroked strong hands over her body, formed by years of training, sparring, fighting…the thin silver scars on them looking like a tribute to his life as a warrior. Long fingers caressed her skin, stroking up the back of her thighs, making her spread her legs and moan together with him as he stroked in between them without anything in the way, finding her more than ready for him. He continued on, fingertips circling her hipbone as he kissed her senseless, edging his good thigh between her legs so she could get some blessed friction against her aching nub. His hands stroked up her side, over her stomach, caressing the underside of her breasts, cupping them, _nearly_ stroking over her nipples. But never touching anything she wanted, needed, felt the blasted right to be touched on. 

His kisses followed along her jawline, under her ear, licked down her neck – leaving raging sparks of fire in her veins, a hammering need for more howling in her body. Feeling his naked skin slide against her own, how his thigh left her womanhood as he moved slightly lower made her feel frustrated beyond belief. Pure lust made her moan as his pleasure-brought fluid left wet trails over her skin, her legs folding around him just to be _closer._ And the Mother have mercy, the way his fast breath touched her before his lips did made it all a nearly painfully sensitive experience as he licked and sucked his way over her pulse point and collarbone between kisses. And finally, utterly lightly, grazed her nipple with his teeth.

Sansa arched towards him, moaning helplessly, dazedly wondering how something could feel so good and so thrillingly, pricklingly, _achingly_ frustrating at the same time. Wondering where her own caresses had gone to as she just clung to the large warrior she loved so much, one arm over his shoulder, her nails scraping his back as the other hand was buried in his hair. And thought she would just die of need as his hand stroked lightly over her mound.

It only got worse, or better, or something of both. The sensation of his scarred lips closing on her nipple as his broad finger parted her folds had her loosing track of what was what. Sandor’s tongue flicked quickly back and forth over her tight nipple sending her sky-high on fiery desire, the way his thumb repeated the movement on her nub making her soar in helpless need of his fingers inside her, hard and heavy cock pressing into her. _Please. Fuck me. Like I imagined in the Vale._

Seven save her, but that was enough, making her stiffen as her release suddenly glowed right around the corner, whimpering as he brought her so close that she could practically taste it… and left her hanging there.

“No!” she gasped as his fingers left her wetness. “I was _so close!_ ”

“Which was the whole fucking point,” he rasped and changed nipple, licking her so sweetly it nearly hurt, making her ache like mad, as if a feather light touch between her legs right now was all that stood between her and ecstasy. Which was his whole plan. _Oh Gods, he wants me to peak as he fucks me – that would be wonderful…_

She was hoisted up, though, still lying on the side, before she managed to suggest anything – and folded her leg over his neck in wanting reflex as he kissed her hip. She moved in anticipation as his tongue licked all too slowly in the direction of her slit, gasping when he kissed her just where she needed it most – feeling her release start to glow immediately as he dipped the tip of his tongue inside her and let it slide up over her nub, parting her folds. It was too much, she was so close, and when he used the firm, scarred part of his mouth, kissing her with that _friction_ adding to his tongue licking her softly…

“I`m… I`m… don`t, _Oh Gods…_ just…” Was all she managed before he stopped what he was doing, laughing breathlessly at her as she was dragged down again, keeping her away from her peak by a hair, her whole body glowing with it.

“Fuck, I can`t even prove my worth to you in bed – you`re too bloody hot-blooded!” he grinned as she shamelessly bucked her hips against him, needing him so badly that it _did_ hurt by now. 

“You`ve done that to me from day one,” she whispered. “That`s the problem. It`s just so much more delicious than I ever imagined. Though you`re heating me up simply by being undressed, just… look at you! Look at your arms, and shoulders and _all of you!_ ” she more or less groaned, making that insecure look enter his eyes for a heartbeat again before he kissed her within an inch of her life.

She laid her leg over his good thigh, loving the sensation of the coarse hair covering his legs against the inside of her own thigh, finding him so utterly _male_ in absolutely everything. Tightening her leg around him she started to turn onto her back, pushing at him to make him follow, wanting to peak with him inside her and suddenly having an idea of how that could happen. Having had such a want for him on top of her for so long, getting off on her wet dreams from the Vale, she simply needed it to become reality... if he only could manage it with his side and leg and all...

“I`ll crush you, Little Bird,” he groaned into her mouth before she even managed to finish that thought. “Can`t hold myself up yet.”

“Can`t we try? I`m much stronger than I used to be, with all the exercise I`ve gotten for the last month,” she whispered shakily back, too aroused for shyness of any kind. “If you can... you know…” 

“Bloody hell,” he snorted, meeting her gaze with dark humour in his eyes. “Do you have any idea of what I weigh?” _Oh, by the Seven… served on a plate…_

“Half of Casterly Rock, gold and all?” she said, repeating Jame’s jape from the road before she could stop herself.

“What?” he chuckled breathlessly. “No, but close.”

She just smiled in return, chest heaving. “Please? I want you so much, I… oh, just the thought of you entering me right now…” she groaned, hips moving in need, her body afire with lust.

Sandor looked her deep into her eyes and exhaled raggedly at what he saw there, something soft in his grey gaze as he gave in surprisingly easily. He moved slowly and deliberately, working his bad leg up under hers as he couldn`t lie with it straight out this way. Using his sword arm to lift his upper body over her, he was obviously struggling with making his side and leg cooperate, trying hard not to fall down on her. “Bloody, fucking, useless shield arm,” he grumbled, adding a ‘don`t worry’ supplied with a hard look when she opened her mouth to call off the whole thing, starting to feel more than a little ashamed for pushing him into it when he couldn`t do it at all yesterday. He paused for a moment more, collecting himself, before managing to lower his upper body down on top of her with a grunt of discomfort.

Gods, he was heavy, and by the heavens it felt good when he bucked his hips slowly as if to test if this could be done after all. Wrapping the leg she had over his bad thigh around his hip instead, she tilted her own hips. And felt his cock press against her folds, making them both moan helplessly against each other’s lips as he kissed her.

He thrust against her again and she met it by tilting her hips further, and slowly, slowly her wetness made him slide closer and closer to what they both wanted so badly, what her body was howling for. Sandor broke the kiss and met her gaze with a dazed look in his eyes, obviously finding the incidental way they`d just found so much pleasure, how _well_ they fit, exciting as well. She`d expected him to steer himself inside her at once, but he didn`t, and it felt absolutely wonderful lying there with his body weighing heavily upon her, his cock caressing her womanhood, his hips pressing her down so her nub got sweet friction. She was so oversensitive by now that every rhythmic movement made her release glow and ebb away repeatedly, driving her insane. 

Holding his grey gaze and watching so much love there, his twisted scars simply highlighting it by their harsh contrast, Sansa wondered how she could ever have missed seeing his true feelings for her. It was so obvious now, in their close embrace, but really… it should have been obvious even back in King’s Landing that he`d liked her in his own strange way. 

Loving him with all her being, she held that enthralling gaze as his black hair fall forwards, caressing her shoulders as he leant in. Kissing her, soft and sweet. Clearly loving her just as much in return as his hips moved so deliciously, her folds parting, her hips finding just the right angle, her release shining. And then he suddenly pressed gently into her, groaning deeply as he did so, seemingly surprised that they`d made it work like this at all.

By the Seven how need and lust could blend into such a basis for love and passion, making shimmering, shivering pleasure stream into every part of her as the pressure of his cock entering her had her moaning soundlessly. She stiffened as this overwhelming feeling of hot pleasure tingled up and down her spine as she expanded around him, gasping for breath into his neck, burying her nails in his back. 

“Hurts?” he rasped softly.

“No,” she breathed, in complete wonder at it feeling so ridiculously good. Adjusting to him being pure bliss, hearing herself gasp as he retreated before thrusting slowly into her once more, making her moan shakily.

“ _Now_ it`s bloody well working for you, Little Bird,” he groaned on a ragged exhale. 

Sansa couldn`t reply, just clung to him as her body responded so intensely to the slow, sweet rhythm of his hips, knowing he was being careful, trusting him not to go too deep. Feeling him edge his sword arm inunder her neck, tightening it, and relieving her of _some_ of the pressure – making her pleasure expand even more. Relaxing and feeling herself be lifted up and up on the rocking rhythm of him, she began to meet his trusts eagerly as the pleasure vibrated through her. Finding the glow again and wanting it all to unfold into the heavens that glimmered tantalizingly close as his cock filled her and withdrew, filled her and withdrew, again and again. 

Sandor’s heavy breathing beside her ear added into it all, his dazed moan as she started moving with him confirming the feeling she had that just responding as she wanted was what _he_ wanted too. And then he started kissing her neck, licking her skin as he did so, his weight pressing her down, rubbing her nub, if she could… just… tilt her hips…

“I`m going to miss you so much when we`re on the road,” she whispered shakily, hands buried in his hair and his scarred face buried in her neck. 

“I`m all too used to having you as if you were… my... I fucking _hate_ that they don`t know you`re mine! I want _this._ With you,” he panted in clear frustration.

“I want this too,” she replied softly, feeling the way his breath hitched and his arm tightened gently around her neck, massive muscles normally used for killing cushioning their movements as he kissed her possessively.

The rhythm had changed, his moans starting to come on every exhale, mixing into her own as she pressed him against her body, her hands grabbing his bottom and shoving him closer. She loved how the pressure of him inside her filled her so thoroughly, suddenly feeling the soft caress of his balls on her behind telling her that he was all the way in. And it _still_ felt like standing at the gates of bliss and salvation. 

His sword arm left it’s place under her neck, his body crushing down on her for a heartbeat before he edged his large hand gently under her bottom, lifting her up as his shoulder took some of the weight. She moaned raggedly as the intense pleasure the new angle brought made _something_ bloom deep inside her when he hit it, but was silenced by his eager kiss. His tongue in her mouth drove her into whimpers as she held him hard in overwhelming want for that radiant peak, her fingers digging into the powerful muscles of his back. It was there, coming…. closer…

And nothing, _nothing_ could compare to the storm of pleasure that suddenly dawned like a sunrise, just to unleash so much more inside her.

Squirming under him she moaned loudly as she lifted her legs up so he could thrust deeper, ending up spreading them even more as Sandor fucked her mercilessly into all the seven heavens. The burning, ecstatic feeling of his cock pushing against that point inside her expanded like a tidal wave into a release that made her sob in relief and cry out in agonized pleasure too intense to bear. 

“Look at me,” Sandor murmured desperately as she arched, grabbing her hair with his left hand. “Please.”

She did. As her body howled with streaming, liquid, shaking bliss. And saw something shift deep in his grey gaze, hazy with pleasure and love and… _happiness?_ Watched through her own daze as he peaked together with her, his face contorting above her as his movements turned erratic, his cock pulsing inside her, hitting that _point_ harder and shoving her even higher as he groaned her name with that helpless note to his harsh voice.

Clinging to each other as if they would never let go, they let their storm roar it’s course through their veins, the both of them moaning with their lips meeting in a frozen half-kiss until it quieted down. Eventually, only shivering aftershocks were left, and Sandor lay twice as heavy on top of her, slowly crushing the breath out of her body now that every fibre of him lay completely limp.

“Move, you great aurochs,” she groaned laughingly when she couldn`t take anymore, making him grunt something incomprehensible as he struggled off her. More or less rolling onto his side with his cock glistening wetly and a thin layer of sweat covering his skin. 

Looking at what she`d done to her usually vigorous man, Sansa grinned to herself as she stretched down and managed to reach a corner of the smallclothes lying on the floor with a fingertip. It felt surprisingly fulfilling to make Sandor drop down completely spent on the bed like that after making love with him. She must have done _something_ right, at least. Feeling her self-confidence grow as she cleaned herself up after drying off the worst of the mess, she concluded that lovemaking was another art worth being good at. Even if she was beginning to ache quite uncomfortably between her legs now… 

She blew out the lights and opened the window to let in cold, crisp night-air and soft white moonlight. The snow was glittering outside in quiet, beautiful contrast to the racket from downstairs, making her leave the shutters open before climbing into the bed again, covering the man she shared it with in their blankets. Sandor lay on his stomach, as he seemed prone to if not holding her, and looked so done for that Sansa simply smiled to herself and stroked his hair, making him sigh deeply in what seemed like utter contentment. 

He dragged her towards him with his sword arm and met her gaze when she lay down beside him. “My love,” he rasped quietly, a bit pointedly, embarrassment flickering in his eyes before he closed them again.

“My love,” she whispered in return, making scarred lips twist into a smile and his arm tighten around her. 

Lying there with moonlight filling the room that had cradled life and death on a balancing scale and let new love grow into something much deeper, Sansa couldn`t help but feel sad about leaving it tomorrow. They`d lived as husband and wife here, and having tasted that part of life… By the Mother, the journey to Riverrun would hold hard… sleeping in different tents, no place to sneak away… It would take approximately two weeks if they didn`t fall into a camp of Lannisters. Two whole weeks without lovemaking. _Oh… damn._ It was two weeks since she`d had her moonblood. Sandor had still been lying more or less out cold then, so it had passed without comment, but what if it came again just as they arrived at Riverrun? _Then I`m not carrying a child at least…_ And, about that…

“Sandor?” she said, getting no response. “Sandor?” She shook his shoulder gently, earning a grunt in return. Well, this simply couldn`t wait any longer, so that had to be good enough. “Do you… I‘ve been thinking… do you have any… any bastards?”

“What in the deepest hell?” he muttered drowsily. “I was sleeping, woman.”

“Well… do you?” she asked stubbornly.

“No. Not that I know of, at least,” he grumbled, obviously sliding off into sleep again.

That wasn`t an answer to calm Sansa’s worries. “So… you could very well have a few?” she pushed, trying to force down the strange jealousy that welled up in her.

“Not bloody likely… I‘m not exactly sire-material now am I?” Sandor replied, starting to sound annoyed as well as dead tired.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” she asked, puzzled at his affronted tone.

“That no sane woman would breed on me, for fuck’s sake!” he replied grumpily. Opening his eyes and looking straight at her for a heartbeat before deliberately shutting her out by rubbing his forehead on his muscular forearm and settling down again. Obviously thinking the conversation over.

“ _I_ would,” Sansa said softly into the moonlit room.

“Crazy bird,” he grunted in return with his face more or less buried in his pillow.

Sansa knew she needed sleep too, but right now she also needed to get all these thoughts out of her head. “So you‘ve always done as you do now?” she trudged on, hearing the tightness in her shoulders reflected in her voice. “Spilled… spilled your seed inside the women you‘ve fucked?”

Sandor heard it as well, pausing before opening his eyes again. “More or less,”

“You‘re so irresponsible, do you know that?” she exclaimed in return, somehow feeling hurt at just being another one on his list all over again, trying to push down the small voice whispering that she shouldn`t always believe herself so special. “You could have… you could have daughters and sons over half the westerlands!”

That had him giving up on his sleep, _and_ got his temper flaring. “Then why the hell hasn‘t a single one of them shown up with a note tied around their wrists, then? Their supposed mothers knew where to fucking find me!” he rasped angrily, boring his dark grey gaze into her eyes and making her stomach twist at the mention of other mothers to his could-be children than herself, no matter how stupid it felt.

“Maybe because they didn‘t see you as sire-material?” she snapped right back.

“Yet you do?” he growled.

“Yes!” she answered angrily, seeing a strange shift in his eyes that made her continue a bit more mildly. “Just not… yet.”

“You _mean_ it don‘t you?” he asked incredulously, lifting his head off his pillow and resting it on his sword arm. “You can‘t have my bastards, Little Bird. It`s plain fucking insanity. It would ruin you for the whole bloody world to see.”

“ _Now_ you`re worried about me giving birth to your bastards? When I could already be carrying one in my belly? You‘re wrong, though,” she said seriously, stroking his neck to calm him down, marvelling at how he let her touch him like this so much more lately. “If my honourable lord father could have a bastard, so can I when the time is right. But not yet, so you‘ll have to speak with Elder Brother.”

“What the hell should I speak to him about?” Sandor asked, apparently giving up on being grumpy and settling for tired curiosity. She just met his gaze levelly, raising her eyebrow and waiting until realisation dawned on him, understanding glinting in his eyes. “Oh, no! That tea, that`s women’s business!”

“Do you want to ruin me, then?” Sansa asked exasperatedly.

“No, but…” he started hoarsely, clearly annoyed once more.

“Then you‘ll talk to Elder Brother and get some moon tea,” she said, running right over him in the most nononses way her septa had used on her when she`d been acting ridiculously as a child. “ _And_ the three-day herbs.”

“What?” Sandor rasped quietly, almost threateningly, brow furrowed and what seemed like a hair from exploding into a rage as he roughly shrugged her hand off him.

“The three-day herbs,” she replied, giving up on caressing him and trying to reason him away from roaring them into a proper argument instead. “We‘ve only been doing… _this_ for a day, so we‘re inside the three days where I can drink the herbs and we‘ll never know if I‘ve quickened. Randa forgot her moon tea once in a while, so… that‘s how I know.” 

“And you expect me to run to Elder Brother like a flaming washer woman for it? You can bugger _that_ idea off to all the seven hells, believe me,” he sneered with finality, turning his head away from her and dragging his covers further into place. 

Handling her bannermen suddenly felt like a stroll in the park compared to the insufferable man she was bedding. “Sandor, really… _you_ find asking for that awkward and embarrassing? I`ve already admitted that I l… love you to him. He`s such a … has such a… _dignity._ It really feels like I need to guard my own respectability simply to manage handling him the day we don`t agree on something. Besides it‘s time you took some responsibility for the matter anyway. Gods… it`s not like you`ve been asked to do this before!”

“No, because camp followers and whores drink their moon tea, unless they belong to just one soldier or are warming the bed of some fucking lord with his arse full enough of golden dragons to support whatever brats the harlot whelps,” Sandor replied irritably. “And serving wenches would be constantly heavy with child if they didn‘t, believe me.”

“Maybe, but you‘ve no way of knowing that,” Sansa said, frustrated and still sort of jealous, silently cursing serving-wenches every which way. “Am I not worth denting your pride a little for? You never gave a damn about what _Joff_ did or said to you,” she ended up blurting, the soreness in her voice all too obvious. “The one you called a ‘nasty little shit’ just an hour ago, remember?

He froze beside her, apparently turning what she`d just said over in his head. Sansa only hoped he would see her point and the reason she was hurt instead of ending up deeply offended by her careless wording. But really, the more she thought about it herself, the angrier she got. He`d let anyone who wanted call him dog in a highly unflattering way, but couldn`t lower himself to ask for the herbs which would allow them to carry on as lovers? Even after tonight? That stung so badly that she had to blink back tears. 

Just when she opened her mouth to tell him that she would go back to her own room this night, hoping Brienne and Jaime were finished with whatever they were doing, Sandor turned back towards her. “Joff can go bugger himself on his sword in whatever hell he`s stationed in, but he didn`t put me in a position where I hadn`t already put myself, so… no pride was ever dented until _you_ came along and fucked me up completely,” he said, watching her with that unnerving hardness to his gaze that would have made grown men nervous.

“So you won`t do it for my sake,” Sansa concluded, swallowing desperately to get rid of the lump in her throat. Disappointment added to her hurt feelings as she felt herself withdraw from him and his stupid male pride, getting up and trying to locate her clothes on the floor.

“You`re not the first woman who`s run away from me after a tumble,” he more or less snorted from the bed, lying down on his back and placing his good arm behind his neck, annoyingly enough showing off massive muscles. “But I didn`t say I _wouldn`t_ get the bleeding leaves for you, did I? So wipe off that scowl.” She simply stared at him. “Not when you put it like that,” he added soberly, mirth creeping into his features as he watched her expression turn perplexed.

“You..!” she exclaimed, lost for words.

“Bastard?” he suggested, looking ready to laugh at her. 

“Why are you always so _difficult?_ ” she exclaimed, throwing one of her stockings at him. 

He caught it right-handed before it landed on the bedside and threw it back with far better precision. “If you wanted someone easy to handle why the hell did you pick _me?_ ” 

“Right now I`ve no idea,” she replied grumblingly as she crept into bed with him again. She snuggled up against his naked body almost irritably, not sure if she felt _annoyed_ or not that his warm skin felt absolutely wonderful after the cold air in the room. “And you`re getting the herbs and tea for _us,_ not just me.”

“Whatever my lady says,” he muttered in return, folding his arms around her and holding her tight when she tried to raise herself to glare at him, somehow making her grin despite herself as she gave up struggling against – what? Nineteen stone of man? Twenty? Even more? _Gods, Jaime`s going to ruin me._

His breathing had started changing like it always did when he was falling asleep, the way his chest rose and fell with deep, even inhales and exhales comforting in its own way, making the rest of her irritation drain away. Disturbing him even felt bad all of a sudden, but Sansa stubbornly opened her mouth once more anyway, needing to say one last thing before she lost her nerve and the bastard topic felt too awkward to bring up again.

“If… Sandor? If a bastard of yours did ever turn up, please bring him or her to me… and… I‘ll do better than my mother did.”

His breathing paused and a deep sigh escaped his lips before he replied drowsily. “I remember… your crow brother wasn‘t allowed at the table, was he?”

“No,” Sansa replied softly. “Not when royalty was around at least. My mother could never abide him, and… my father let her have her opinions. Arya loved him, though. And my other brothers acted like he was one of them unless it was demanded they did otherwise. But to be honest, I never thought of him as my brother, not truly.”

“Bloody hell…” Sandor yawned, sliding into sleep again. Or so Sansa thought until he suddenly continued. “Good thing you`re so fucked up on your preferences, though… Or seven save me… what if a bastard of mine showed up looking a spick image of me, but sixteen and with a complete face? Fuck, you‘d kick me out of your bed instantly! Better to beat him up and send him home,” he grumbled sleepily.

“No,” she replied in fond exasperation, tightening her arms around him. “I would take him in and find him a good match before he was carried away by all our serving wenches.” She kissed her half-sleeping man on his perfectly scarred mouth. “And then I would go and bed his sire.”


	34. Hounds and hedgehogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally dedicated to Swiftsnowmane for her brilliant equestrian comments at sansa_sandor.livejournal.com. Now you have to share it with the memory of my irreplaceable, wonderful River who died on Saturday. My star. Owsariver owns no River no more. How strange that the story truly enters the Riverlands just as he left my world...

Fuck he was sore. And she bloody well wanted to _breed_ on him… seven hells… 

Stickboy was fastening the straps on his pauldrons, having climbed up on a stool without losing speed, working like the Stranger himself stood sharpening his blades behind him. Sandor had no idea exactly _when_ the lad had gotten into the habit of just bloody appearing out of thin air whenever needed, but he did, so he let him work his skinny arse off as he was in severe lack of others to do the job. It let Sandor brood in peace. 

He`d been woken by her kiss this morning, her sweet embrace and warm, delicious body feeling so bleeding right as he tightened his arm around her, stretching his back as he came to his wits. He _was_ getting all too used to it, feeling comfortable and relaxed in it all. Only to find Willow trotting around the dimly lit room and stressing the point that they needed to hurry before the rest of the inn decided to come around as well. 

She could as well have shouted ‘fire’ for all the panic in her voice, knowing as well as he did that nothing could be concealed the second two hundred people started moving around in preparation to leave. Still… _Never heard of morning-stiffness have you, girl?_ Sansa knew, though, and had set the little handmaid of hers to work so Sandor could get things under control before being harried out of bed.

Unfortunately, that had been the only thing she`d done to make it easy for him. Sansa _hadn`t_ helped him dress or even let her gaze slide over his body like she usually did. She`d just flown out of the sheets as Willow buried her head deep in the chest that had been provided for her mistress. About twenty seconds later Lady Stark had been dressed and braided up, pecked Sandor something that was _supposed_ to be a kiss on his mouth – and then all he saw was the hem of her skirts flying out the door, her grand lady demeanour already in place. Leaving him and Willow to sort out dressing him to the best of their abilities after glancing hesitantly at each other for a moment or two.

Seven hells… How could he feel fucking _hurt_ just by the lack of a proper kiss, _even_ if it was Gods knew how long until the next time? Ending up so flaming frustrated by the shortage of something akin to that two-worded exclamation of fucking love or care or bloody _anything_ that confirmed his own heaving emotions… He was turning into some simpering woman, he was… bugger him. And try as he might to force it all down, it just kept resurfacing like an avalanche of vibrating yearning for just… _her._ Hellishly irritating to be robbed of the control of his own mind and body yet again when he thought he`d finally reached some conclusions about… bloody well being in love. 

The whole inn was boiling with activity by now. Lords and soldiers alternated between shovelling food into their mouths, holding their winesick heads together and making everything ready for departure. The stable-hands were bringing out the horses and strapped on saddlebags in the rapidly thinning darkness while orphans ran everywhere with messages and equipment. And in case the well-organized chaos wasn‘t complete in the first place, the long-faced innkeep – who‘d never stopped staring at him as if he`d just dragged a muddy pig in her door – kept whipping everyone around as well. _Horrible woman._

Sansa and Elder Brother were the only ones in the whole blasted inn who seemed completely calm and collected, even if maddeningly effective. The last he‘d seen her, she‘d been sitting at the head table in the common room going through a pile of papers, paying the innkeep, noting down names of the orphans she was bringing with her and answering an even stream of questions at the same time. Looking fucking comfortable.

She`d smiled and nodded at him and Vance’s two seconds in command with equal enthusiasm when they strode into the light of the common room. The three of them had been discussing marching formations after going over a quick planning of the line up in the yard – already having stuffed the three captives from the skirmish on the road into the care of Vance’s most trusted men on Elder Brother’s request. Lady Stark was crossing out the completed tasks, not giving him so much as an appreciative glint in her eyes when she looked at him, even though _he_ turned into an inwardly flaming disaster just meeting her gaze. Annoying himself to shreds.

Fuck, he wasn`t a complete idiot, he knew it had to be this way… yesterday had been a pretty bitter taste of the weeks to come. _But you don`t have to smile like that at Wode, for fuck’s sake._ The sod had done nothing but trying to drown between her teats all of last night. That he turned out to be a half decent soldier was bad enough. That Sandor officially had no reason to punch the arse to splinters but needed to bloody _cooperate_ with him instead felt far worse… 

The Lion had been standing guard behind her, though, looking like a nice and tidy scuffle was just the thing to make his life worth living, winesick or not, and sending Sandor a glance of half self-inflicted misery, half invitation to punch leering knights side by side with him. It felt good that he noticed the whole fucking issue, to be honest… and strangely fulfilling to have _one_ fucking person in the whole world to exchange such glances with, even though they couldn`t actually _do_ anything. How Jaime had managed to spend half of his life without going insane, being completely powerless as every second man slobbered rivers after Cersei, was bloody well beyond Sandor.

 _It‘ll be bleeding nice to get into action again, I need to get all this shit out somewhere or do something utterly stupid sooner or later…_ Sandor had never been good at staying idle while healing anyway, and his whole body craved exercise as heavily as his old need for wine. _But she would probably have a fit if I so much as picked up a shield right now…_ Or would she? The indifferent way she seemed to be handling the distance they were forced to have between them suggested he was pretty much free to do as he wanted. 

Which actually burned a bit, that she suddenly didn`t care two shits about him. And _that_ thought instantly made him incredulous at finding himself under her thumb like some spineless craven. Like the husband of Genna Lannister. Genna the _lioness,_ married off to a ferret. The scrawny shit had been a fucking laughing stock at Casterly Rock. _But he`s a Frey – nothing more to expect…_ And Genna was a force of nature. Sitting in a cell at Riverrun. Waiting for them. 

So, restraining himself from just smashing Ser Willis’s head against the wall, Sandor’s eyes began to search the common room for Bronze Yohn as Sansa kept on smilingly answering questions, knowing everything from where _every single_ missing stocking had gone to, to where Lazy Led was hiding. She kept on giving orders to the orphans and soldiers alike with the same quiet voice of command and apparently taking it for granted that they would be followed to the letter; controlled as an ice-covered river, hiding its currents. 

And bugger him if that wasn‘t how he‘d found himself banned from returning to the yard and the task he was doing, simply by the way her sudden piercing glance had compared him to the two armoured sers. Finding himself being ordered up to the room where the loot was being sorted through and loaded into casks and saddlebags by the orphans. To be strapped up in something that was supposed to fit well enough to be called armour just because Sansa didn`t want him to ride _unprotected_ in his state. _Someone hang me…_ He would become meat for the crows if he ended up in combat right now, make no mistake about that, dead men’s plate and mail would only weigh him down.

Still, try protesting against Winterfell’s daughter in front of half a common room full of people… Seven hells… he hadn`t even managed to open his mouth before her beautiful eyes turned to fucking crystallised frost, warning him not to fuck up on showing respect for her status in public. If someone else had had an objection to something, she would bloody well have listened and considered what the bastard had to say. But not him, oh no. He was just being disrespectful, apparently. 

So he`d given her a scowl and a _hellishly_ correct bow, irritated by her treating him like some stupid servant – and left Ellery Vance in charge of the line up. Willis bloody Wode had gotten the responsibility of tracking down the Lord of Runestone to ensure the company of riverlanders a place near Sansa when merging with the Vale’s army. At least Sandor would have a reason to growl the stolid shit to the ground that way… if Wode didn`t manage to wring an agreement out of Bronze Yohn. It was possible to hope, at least. 

Watching Stickboy advance to the too-short greaves as Sandor was fastening the vambrace on his useless shield arm, he tried to get his temper under control. How in the seven burning hells had that little auburn bird with her pretty Tully-blue eyes – who‘d smiled so shyly at him through the mountains – turned into that forceful lady downstairs so quickly? He`d known she had it in her, but to watch it unfold like this… watch her slap the lords around yesterday. Fuck him, when she didn`t use it to bitch _him_ around, she was intoxicating as hell like that… and all that _knowledge_ she`d stored away in that pretty head of hers. _By the Stranger…_ Which for some reason just made him even more fucked up over her, even more frustrated that she wouldn`t be sleeping next to him tonight, angry at never getting anything _right_ in this flaming life of his. 

Stickboy had turned out to be surprisingly efficient, though – which was a mercy even if all else was turning to dung – instantly having cut off spare straps with buckles and extending the straps on the brigandine Sandor had squeezed himself into. He`d made it possible for the fucking thing to function more or less as it should if nothing else… Sandor’s side was aching already, and his leg would only get worse as the day progressed, _but…_ it still felt good to be back in mail and leather nonetheless. He would give her that.

He sorely needed new armour. He even had the dragons for it from the Vale’s tourney now that Sansa seemed self-supplied with gold from both Elder Brother and Jaime. _If she manages to pull that off with the Lannisters that is…_ He _had_ been in too bad a shape to get around to it before now, but truth be told: it itched like hell to go order it from that bloody sullen apprentice. 

Sandor still felt a bit more than slightly uneasy about the sod having seen him break down completely with his arm on fire. _Especially_ after Sansa had simply informed him – as a bleeding aside – that he would be instructing the bastard in ‘the arts of his trade.’ The Vale’s army was bound to have a horde of blacksmiths with them, though. And hopefully, one of them would be skilled enough to make him a decent set of plate and mail… _and I need a leatherworker for a new brigandine…_ but for now he had to live with what he had. 

The sword wasn‘t too bad for being a rusty old pitchfork hammered into a blade, actually, and he had his own knives and dagger. But his shield had been splintered beyond recognition and as the whole bloody reason for him standing here was that his armour could no longer pass as such, he ended up feeling frustrated no end by how flaming _small_ everybody else was. Not that that was a new thing… he hadn`t been able to raid battlefields after combat to extend his personal arsenal of armour since he was a squire. Weapons were another matter.

Still, Ser Fucking ‘Prentice Smith of the Forest had made his gauntlets possible to use again and managed to get enough dents out of his pauldrons and gardbraces to make them work at all – which showed his skills even if Sandor would never admit to it. But seven hells, didn‘t other men have shoulders? He couldn‘t fit into the fucking… the blasted… _things_ women wore on their fingers while sewing… to avoid pricking themselves on their needles while you were boring yourself into an early grave guarding them… _Thimbles. Everybody else has armour made of flaming thimbles._

Trying to get a grip on his steadily darkening mood, Sandor forced himself to conclude that Stickboy had managed to fasten enough steel on him to make him feel back where he belonged, and that was a hell of a lot better than lying tied to a bed anyway. _And wasn`t Needle the name of the wolf-bitch’s little weapon?_ Rabid little thing that girl… he hoped for Sansa’s sake that her wild sister was still alive, and for Gendry’s sake that he knew which sister to throw his attention at. 

“Get my sword for me,” he rasped to the skinny brat as he was straightening the scarf under his gorget, wondering yet again how it was possible to get so sore from slow-fucking a woman as gently as he hadn`t had the _faintest_ idea of how to do before last night.  
 _Haven`t fucked anyone at all for a really long time, though… And I`ve never been in the habit of rutting four times a day, either._

Stickboy came struggling into view, carrying the weapon in its scabbard, swordbelt and all, looking like he would have given a hell of a lot to be able to hand it over one-handed without just toppling over.

“Bugger me, boy, what the fuck did you grow up on? Moss? You need to gain some pounds,” he muttered at the scrawny frame beside him.

“At least I _did_ grow up,” the little shit piped, looking straight at him. 

Sandor looked hard down at the lad in return. “Watch your attitude,” he growled softly as Stickboy lacked the brain to avert his eyes, but silently gave him a point for surviving the hellhole war had made of his childhood. _Like I survived my brother…outlived my brother._ Fuck, he hoped Gregor’s death had taken as long as rumoured. He hoped he`d rotted alive, every fucking second pure agony as he`d lain there screaming in his own stench of decay.

The boy trailed after him downstairs and out into the grey morning, cold air filling Sandor’s lungs again as he took a deep breath, ignoring his aching body and the staring from the men of the Vale alike. “Go do something useful and get the dun brought out for me,” he said irritably to the boy, making him evaporate immediately.

He was just about to turn into the yard to get hold of the two sers currently shouting the last squads into order when someone yelled ‘Commander!’ and the complete unit of brats came flocking towards him, tailed by the dogs from the hunt as usual. Half of them looked as winesick as the soldiers – the rest of them looked furious.

Sandor rolled his eyes at the rabble, feeling fucking sure it was all too early in an already shitty morning to handle a group of obnoxious gits who reached him no higher than his navel. “Seven hells, line up you flaming bastards! If you`re old enough to get pissed on stolen wine, you`re old enough not to call for me while looking like the bloody village counsel of some Gods-forsaken bend in the road with hovels!” he roared, irritation flaring. Fuck, he would set Brienne on them if they didn`t learn faster than this. _Though she would probably lay down her sword and preach piss about chivalry and honourable behaviour to an inferior opponent. While they killed her from behind…_ Where _was_ Brienne anyway? She was supposed to be overseeing the Inner Guard…

The snivelling little shits before him shuffled into something approaching lines with sullen expressions, making Sandor wish for a bull-whip and feel his already pitch-dark mood go straight to hell. “Commander, Ser, we ain`t allowed to march with the soldiers,” a beak-nosed youngster with bloodshot eyes said, earning nods and grumbles of agreement down the supposed lines.

“You fucking idiots,” Sandor replied in a contemptuous snarl. “Of course you aren`t. You`re a bunch of brats in severe lack of discipline, you`ve nothing to do in the ranks of the men-at-arms. Now bugger off before I wring your neck for calling me ser, you rump-fed little wretch.”

The wretch swallowed visibly, glancing sideways at a lanky girl with pretty eyes and a long brown braid. _Tilla…_ or something. She`d stood out yesterday, picking things up easily and fighting with an aggression Sandor knew well. She glared right back at Beak-Nose and made him look at his boots instantly. _So that`s how it is, now is it? Bloody women, getting their way through us idiot men no matter our opinion…_ About that… what the hell was he supposed to do with the fucking forest-knight Sansa had forced on him anyway? Set him to squire? 

“What`s your name, girl?” Sandor rasped, looking directly at the lanky bitch, making her jump. 

“Tilain,” she answered, looking straight back at his scarred face and obviously stopping herself from adding a ‘ser.’

“Right, Tilain. If you`ve something to say to me you do it yourself instead of pushing Beak-Nose in front of you,” Sandor grunted, irritation pulsing through him. “Is that clear? Or are you the type to push others into the crossfire to save your own arse as well?” 

The girl’s cheeks heated in anger. “No, _Commander,_ ” she answered, her voice tight.

“Good,” Sandor rasped, boring his gaze into hers until she dropped her eyes to the ground. “Since you seem to like harrying people around, you have the responsibility for the brats today.”

“Yes, Commander,” the girl replied promptly, looking midway between offended and pleased.

“And collect stones. At every stop. The size of small hen eggs and as round and smooth as they go. Dig them out of the frozen ground with your bare hands. I want to see blisters from here to hell – and not hear a fucking complaint,” Sandor added, swiping his gaze over them all. The girl gave a short nod as she added another ‘yes, Commander,’ starting to look threateningly at Beak-nose again.

“Now sod off and keep out of everybody’s way until it`s time to line up behind the wagons, or I`ll make you howl for your dead mothers, wishing for the Stranger’s mercy instead of mine,” Sandor finished in a growl, wondering how the hell Sansa would respond when her precious orphans died like flies if they ended up in a skirmish along the way. 

He`d already turned away from them, dismissing the pestering little rats from his mind, when he saw Brienne walking beside Lady Stark’s guard of honour, the Inner Guard leading the other squads of riverlanders marching out of the yard. Jaime’s new ladylove looked like a storm cloud and gritted her teeth until it seemed like her whole fucking jaw would simply dislocate from the pressure.

“Having a bloody marvellous morning as well?” he grumbled as he walked up beside her, trying not to limp like a bleeding cripple.

She glanced at him and muttered ‘Commander’ as a greeting before staring straight ahead as Ser Ellery commanded the company of riverlanders to a halt. “Only what is to be expected, Clegane,” she said, continuing on another fifteen yards to give room for the wagons before raising her arm, ignoring the men instantly going into a halt in marching formation and stomped past them in a way that shouted frustration.

“And what`s that, _Tarth?_ ” he asked in return, even more grumpy at her blasted correctness. She looked searchingly at him, obviously unsure of how to handle the mix of roles and the different levels of status between them. “Bloody hell, Brienne – fuck off with the formalities, will you? I have a perfectly functional first name and won`t mind the least if you want to rant your throat sore about _those_ fucking whoresons,” he rasped, nodding at the mail-clad men behind them.

“I… um… right. S-sandor,” she stuttered, making a mess of her dignity again. “Well, you told me to order the ten… _whoresons_ into formation by skill and strength and make them ready to form the guard around Sansa when she appears, and they _did_ do what I asked of them, but… it`s the _glances_ and grumbles, and the _other_ squads… They know I can fight, Cl… _Sandor_ … And… _I_ know I can fight, I`m improving and… But, they… they don`t give a damn about that as long as I`m a woman trying to command them.”

Sandor stared sideways at her, not even needing to look much downwards. “Bugger me, don`t swallow your tongue, Beauty. Firstly you don`t _ask,_ you tell them to bloody well listen or you`ll drag the worst of the bleating fuckers into the middle of the yard and beat him senseless. Which you _will,_ because you`ve become a two-edged hell to fight, female or not.” Brienne blushed scarlet as they stopped before the stable, watching the attendees of the Lords of the Vale find their place before Lady Stark emerged from the inn and the whole bloody procession would join the main force. “Secondly, you stop taking any shit _at all._ If you feel insulted, that`s flaming enough. Find the guts you show when you fight and tell them, sers and all, to go fuck their wrinkled grandmothers until the earthworms they’ve got for cocks falls off blue.”

“I… _right._ Thank you,” Brienne muttered, her expression changing from surprised to grateful. “I actually think I`ll try to do that. It… would it be like… can my guts feel like they do when… you know… when your lips curl back in battle and you suddenly don`t care for anything but the fight anymore?” she continued questioningly but with a whole new confidence in her, those strangely beautiful eyes fastening on him as if he was the fucking Father himself.

“Yes,” he rasped back at her, ending up barking a wry laugh when she gave him a half-embarrassed smile. “Just like that.”

The Lords Declarant and the riverlords would be riding at the head of the procession from the inn, their horses already standing ready to be mounted in front of the Inner Guard. The breath was misting out from the mounts’ nostrils as squires and pages made their last checks and standard-bearers fussed with their poles, the different house banners hanging limp in the cold morning air. Wagons were being loaded with the orphans not belonging to the unit of brats, and sumpter-horses carrying large packs of equipment stood tied behind them.

Sandor was still amazed at how Sansa had drawn a whole bloody army out of nothing at this Godsforsaken place. He`d thought they would need to reach Riverrun before rallying anything, and that being if they were lucky enough to survive the journey at all... Still, it felt right. Like he`d found solid rock under his feet again. Like he`d been floating on nothing for the past years, unknowingly waiting for this. How many times had he crossed back and forth in this area anyway? 

It felt fucking strange to think that he had been carried, beaten within an inch of the Stranger’s grasp, into the same bloody inn that had nearly cost him his life the last time as well. This time though, _Sansa_ had patched him up. Sansa had been there when he woke, having fought just as hard for his life as he`d done for hers, apparently… the reason he walked out of it again as the bleeding commander of the forces of the north. _Except for the fact that the northern forces are a company of borrowed riverlanders, that is…unless she expects me to wrestle Bronze Yohn for_ his _forces…_ Be that as it may, he`d never thought anybody would fight to save _him_ one day. 

Of course, stitching him up and keeping him alive because of his value as a fighter was something the Lannisters had done from time to time throughout the years. It was for pure fucking practical purposes, though, and had nothing to do with him, really, just his skills. And _that_ was the weird twist to it, wasn`t it? How Sansa had managed to make him see the confusing puzzle Elder Brother had forced on him a bit differently. She had somehow managed to simultaneously close the gap and pry a small space between what was his inner self and what was the warrior in him. Maybe that was why he still felt like the Hound when he fought. Because both sides still were a part of him no matter what Elder Brother wished for. She`d just made the inner part valuable too… for _her_ at least. To Lady Sansa Stark, he was worth something just by himself. And fuck him if that wouldn`t be enough for Sandor as well.

Gendry came walking up to him just as Brienne excused herself and strode off towards the lined-up soldiers with a determined expression on her face, passing Stickboy who came leading the middle range destrier Sandor had picked as substitute for Stranger. It was not a bad horse: large, well built and muscular, but he was a bit too heavy on the front and had a placidness to him that annoyed Sandor already. Still, the dun stallion was young, no more than six years old by his teeth, was healthy, had a good enough gait and liked to work when actually asked to do so. He was the best of the loot-horses by far.

On the other hand, Sandor looked down at the sullen half-wit _Sansa_ had saddled him with. “If you expect me to call you Ser you may as well go jump in the well,” he rasped, starting to check the dun’s tack while Stickboy stood holding the half-sleeping horse looking proud as a hen. _Seven hells, what she expects me to put up with._

“Won`t need to drown myself, then,” Gendry muttered, spitting down between his boots and hooking his thumbs into his belt.

“Got a horse?” Sandor asked.

“No,” the lad replied defiantly. 

Sandor grinned viciously. “A bleeding knight for the stories, aren`t you,” he sneered mockingly. “No mount, no shining armour, no fucking knowledge of how to fight without it either… bet the damsels would`ve been really impressed by your valour, lad.”

He met furious blue eyes and stared right back, feeling himself loom over yet another git who`d been used to being larger than anyone else until he met one with three dogs on his shield, feeling his lips twist into a menacing half-grin when the lad’s hands balled into fists. “Bad idea, boy,” he rasped softly.

“I`m not a boy, I`m a man grown,” the black-haired apprentice answered back in badly hidden fury, but forced himself to relax his hands nonetheless. “And I _was_ knighted and I can _make_ my own bloody armour if it comes to that.”

“You`re a boy until I tell you otherwise,” Sandor grunted. “And you might remember how highly I held that flaming Lightning Lord of yours alongside it. Could`ve done us all a favour and lit up his own arse instead of trying to pyre up half of what he found on the road, fucking _knighting_ the rest.”

“He didn`t… you chose trial by battle by your own free will,” the stupid bugger muttered, tossing his hair out of his eyes and making Stickboy more or less quiver with anxiety while he stroked the dun’s nose to calm himself down more than the horse.

“And I won,” Sandor growled, feeling his mouth twitch as his temper rose all over again. “But I didn`t chose to be there in the first place, now did I? The only reason I _was_ tried was because I fell asleep drunk as a bucket of piss.” He glared at what Brienne and Sansa thought could be the old king’s bastard, watching the complete lack of understanding in his strangely familiar eyes with annoyance. _Robert was never the clever one either, but not as stupid as this one._ At least the lad had the sense to shut his mouth, however sulkily… “You`re a boy until you deserve to be something else. See this horse?” he continued in an irritable rasp. “He`s a destrier by breed. He`s hardworking, strong, you can depend on him to do his bleeding best… but is he a warhorse?” Gendry looked blankly at him. “Use the pile of shit where your head should be, you idiot,” Sandor barked midway between exasperation and anger.

“I`m not stupid!” the git exclaimed.

“Yes, you are! I`ve met _boots_ brighter than you. _Is that a warhorse?_ Answer the fucking question!” Sandor bit off.

“Yes,” Gendry muttered in sullen anger.

“ _No!_ ” Sandor roared.

“I know,” Stickboy piped up, making both Sandor and Gendry look at him in surprise. “He isn`t a proper warhorse _yet,_ but he`s the right type, so if you train him he might become one..?” he said, and then simply looked like he would piss his breeches any moment.

“Bloody hells, the stick in clothes has got more brain than you,” Sandor rasped somewhat amused. “He`s right. That mount is a working horse, as you like to work the forge. You can put him in front of a plough and he will plod along good-naturedly all day.” Gendry looked at the dun, dumbfounded, making Sandor snort at the idiot before continuing, hearing the menace entering his voice. “So, as nobody knows what his name was before, we`ll call him a smith and see if I can make him a warrior alongside you. But neither of you is worth your own shit until you`ve proven yourself.”

“And here comes the Stranger,” Stickboy added breathlessly, half in awe and half in terror, as Sandor’s real warhorse made hell come to life all by himself: more or less soaring out of the stable despite his limp and half-healed shoulder, roaring his dominance as he threw himself around and reared up to kick out at the two stable hands trying to lead him on both sides. His ears were flat down in his mane, his muzzle tight and angry. _Good boy, show them where they belong._

Sandor forced his own limp to subside as he left Stickboy with the two smiths and approached the true warrior. Stranger flicked his ears forward at the sight of him, snorting for all his worth and flinging a hind-leg after Wat before calming down enough for Sandor to hook off the two ropes the lads had used to try to control his vicious mount.

“Easy boy,” Sandor murmured, taking the reins and stroking Stranger’s black neck, glaring murder at the stable hands for good measure as his brilliant mount happily searched him for treats. Fuck, Sansa had spoiled him completely. 

And that was as far as he got before turning just in time to watch Elder Brother and Lady Stark herself emerge from the inn. His Little Bird looking every inch the highborn northern lady, calm and unadorned, but more elegant than any of the noble cunts he was used to from the south. Her beauty and posture, even the way she used her hands when she talked were far more convincing of her status than jewels and silks and hair in enough intricate arrangements to shame a complete travelling show, horses included. Bugger him she was gorgeous, and _bloody hell_ how she made his insides turn to a heaving mess today. _Seven save me..._

She had in mysterious ways transformed her blue dress to something that could only be a lot more practical for a woman to ride in than the usual habit of skirts; which tended to make a complete fuck up with legs and embarrassment unless riding side-saddle. Now, her legs were clad in her squire’s breeches, the skirts of her dress split in two over them, and the hood of a much richer fur-lined cloak than the one she`d had before was covering her hair if not her face.

Suddenly realising he was standing there gaping at her like a fucking country lout, Sandor found his wits long enough to bow with the rest of the yard, ignoring his side’s furious protests and thinking he was in shit up to his neck already. His brain simply wouldn`t function around her in the first place, and now that she`d allowed him in between her legs all his body would do was shout for more. Which he wouldn`t get. For a bleeding long time… _And if that wasn`t bad enough I`m turning into some moon-eyed idiot longing for the hand of someone impossible to get…_ If he hadn`t been so big-mouthed about his drinking he would have done his best to get drunk fast as fuck to forget about the whole thing.

Guardian stood placed with the bannermen’s horses, looking like a pretty little palfrey if you didn`t inspect him too closely. Sandor was quite frankly surprised that Sansa had chosen to ride at all, _especially_ after that little tourney of theirs yesterday. She could have been seated comfortably in the wagon, standing ready and filled with furs enough for several litters of bear-cubs. Lady Mallister, Pia – who always looked at him in naked terror – and the maids-in-training would ride it together with Willow and some of the younger orphans. But as everybody found their places and mounts, Sansa said her goodbyes along with Elder Brother and Willow, sending her crying maid into the wagon when she was done hugging her sister before swinging up neatly onto her horse. 

Sandor got his arse into action, cursing his love-sick brain, and led Stranger over to where Smith stood flanked by Sandor’s two new knightly shadows, expecting hell and getting it as his black beast blew himself up all over again. 

“Behave you idiot,” he grunted to the mount as Stickboy skittered sideways while dragging the dun out of harm’s way, crashing directly into Ser Willis’s horse – which fittingly enough looked down at the lad haughtily. “You`ve been lined up alongside other stallions in enough battles to manage your temper, and you`ll be put on a supply-ship soon enough. _This_ way you get some excitement before the air goes out of you.”

Gendry stood glaring first at Stranger, then at Smith, and finally at Sandor, obviously grumpy as hell. “Please… I get it.” _And not a moment too soon, you git._ “I`m a craftsman not a warrior. But I really want to learn, and I`m hardworking and… seven hells, I want to _learn,_ ” he ground out under his breath, looking like it cost him more than he really was willing to give to say those words.

Sandor snorted contemptuously in return, steeling himself for the pain of mounting. “ _My lady_ has decided that you will receive the training you need so as not to trot around and embarrass yourself and her, so I`ll tutor you until a quick death seems a bloody tempting option, don`t worry about that,” he rasped, giving Stranger a sharp tug through his reins when the stallion prepared a new outburst of aggression as he limped flat-eared up on the side a visibly nervous Smith – who started chewing on nothing, the fucking craven. 

“I… thanks, m’lord,” the bastard replied stiffly, contradicting his words by spitting again and glaring at the world in general, before turning on his heel and pushing through the horses to find his place a bit more roughly than was necessary.

Sandor stared sourly after his retreating back, already planning several nasty ways of teaching the sullen half-wit a thing or two about attitude _and_ not to lord him anymore than calling him a ser. “Ah, find your flaming balls,” he grumbled at Smith who was desperately giving every sign of submission as Stranger bit after him, resulting in ninety-five stone of mount trying to sneak away and hide behind Stickboy. Fuck, he was surrounded by fools. Still, managing the two horses was much easier without a fight for rank into the bargain. If only the dominant horse was the one he was supposed to ride…

He managed to mount the dun crow-fodder, even though it felt like his side was fucking unravelling and the world spun. It ended up being _his_ turn to spit breathlessly down on the churned snow in a frustrated attempt to not just empty his stomach then and there in front of the two sers flanking him. Bugger him, he was sick and tired of being dizzy and out of breath. Tired of a body that didn`t work. Stranger, naturally, used the moment to blow himself up and kick out with his good front-leg at Smith, hitting Sandor’s greave with a metallic clang on top of it all and making pain bloom sharply into pure bile by the jolt reverberating through his body. 

That was too much. He retched despite his every intention, but managed to keep it hidden as he smacked Stranger on his massive neck with his reins, and just then heads turned as something started wailing like a piglet being dragged to the slaughter. A small dark-haired figure ran through the throng as fast as its stubby legs allowed it, making a noise that would have made dragons fall over deaf, while being closely pursued by the innkeep’s three red-faced kitchen girls.

Sandor pretended to be interested just to avoid instructing the two seconds for a moment longer as he collected himself, and swallowed desperately to get rid of his nausea. He ended up watching intently as the little body was recaptured right before the wagon Willow was stationed in and wrestled up on a hip. The insane noise continued, however, now angry as hell as well as frustrated. Small fists tried to hit the girl holding it as small teeth searched for flesh through the layers of clothes, and suddenly the pieces fell into place for him, recognizing the child as the little pale-eyed monster Sansa had had dangling from her braid the other day.

The whole yard was already looking at the wailing little creature who, impressively enough, had managed to drown out all the other noise of a complete party of lords and attendees, a company of soldiers and one of brats, horses, wagons and crying girls. So when the tiny horror’s fangs hit their target and the girl struggling to get it back inside the inn yelped at the top of her lungs, no one could blame the men for laughing and throwing around jokes about who`d released the little pit-fighter. 

Sansa cared for more than the odds when betting on the girl against a fully-grown mountain cat, though. She was off Guardian in a flash and strode in the direction of the centre of the commotion with an exasperated Jaime at her heels, the Lion looking like he would quite simply offer to wring the neck of the little beast instead of endure more time in the yard because of some womanly compassion. He had the brain to keep it to himself, at least, so that was bloody something… Sansa turning into an icicle on top of it all, probably throwing _Sandor_ in with the Lion on ‘bad behaviour’ just to make a point out of her demands yesterday, would have made Sandor’s already shitty day turn nothing less than ominous.

The little monster was howling ‘ow’ at the top of her lungs and the flustered girl rubbing her arm with tears on her cheeks tried to curtsy with the other two girls as Lady Stark glided up to them. The ‘ow’ noise was repeated loudly enough to wake the dead and suddenly _Willow_ came running from her wagon making the female fuss complete. And before Sandor knew it Sansa had simply freed the kitchen girl of her miseries and communicated silently with the innkeep by a rapid exchange of glances. Handing the screaming bundle to Willow she bustled them both back in the wagon again in one swift swipe, in some strange way turning the whole scene from another soft-hearted woman too weak for her own good to her taking control of the situation quickly and efficiently.

“Keep formation while we approach the forces of the Vale, divide the cavalry to each side and put the infantry right in the middle behind the lords and Lady Stark when she gives her speech to the men. Wagons, packhorses and brats: out of sight. And do it smoothly, not like drunk fucking peasants carrying scythes in a field,” he rasped at Ellery, waking the dun smith out of his newfound slumber and starting forwards, watching in satisfaction as the Inner Guard parted on Brienne’s order to let him through before closing ranks seamlessly again.

Sansa smiled at him as he approached her when she mounted Guardian anew, making his heart fucking jump in his chest and his mood lighten despite how his guts instantly turned to mush. It didn`t help the ridiculous state of him that she met him by steering the horse underneath her neatly up to his side and cocked her head prettily at his double mounts.

“Too heavy to ride just one?” she murmured under her breath as the last of the entourage entered the yard, the glitter in her Tully blue eyes teasing enough to make him want to chase her down and carry his prize straight to some private place where he could get those breeches off her. And they hadn`t even started on the journey yet. Seven hells, this insistent need to be near her would kill him if the nagging pain in his side wouldn`t. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement nonetheless.

“Wasn`t too heavy to mount _you_ as it turned out,” he muttered nearly inaudibly in return, making a mischievous grin tug at her lips for a moment.

“No,” she whispered as Brienne shouted for her guard to close in, looking straight into his soul with the faint traces of early sunlight shining in the auburn locks framing her face, completely ruining him, making it bleeding impossible to break her gaze. “But I`ve been tutored to carry greater burdens than just one man. However… large.” Fuck, he was getting hard.

“ _My lady,_ ” Jaime broke in, sending Sandor a shrewd glance. “Your party will soon be ready to leave. Preferably without some quite _observant_ impudent fuckers misunderstanding anything,” he continued with a quick look in the direction of the Lords Declarant – whose squires and servants were mounting their own horses – before he more or less herded their lady up front. 

Sansa gave a quick radiant smile over her shoulder at them both and rode up beside Bronze Yohn, taking her place under her own banner as Brienne barked the Inner Guard into motion, her female voice standing out in contrast to the two sers giving commands down the line at Sandor’s hand signal. One of the standard-bearers instantly tilted his pole enough for the grey direwolf of house Stark to snarl soundlessly on its white field – and then they were riding out of the yard, away from the Inn at the Crossroads, that flaming strange place of crossing roads in a man’s life.

Jaime and Sandor rode two horse-lengths behind the lady one of them was sworn to protect and the other couldn`t fucking be without, the Lion on the grey destrier the Piper boy apparently had called Glory in a fit of insanity. Bloody brilliant stallion, however, unlike the heavy thing Sandor was sitting on. Not that Tywin’s son had ever lacked for magnificent horses. Honour alone had been a palfrey worth enough dragons to buy most of the Darry lands they would travel through today. And now he would be made into soup for snivelling brats. _What a fate…_

“You need to get a grip,” Jaime said quietly, breaking Sandor’s train of thought as he watched Sansa wave at the stone-faced innkeep and the remaining orphans, the barking from the hunting-dogs left to guard them reverberating over the fields. “Really, you look like someone has struck you squarely between your eyes whenever she corners you in public. It doesn`t suit your delicate features, dog."

“Shut your mouth, Jaime,” Sandor muttered irritably, feeling his own mouth twitch at knowing it for true.

“Ah, sad to say, it`s impossible to shut. Cersei tried everything from ridiculing me to slapping my face and throwing wine-cups at my head,” Jaime replied with a lazy grin, shaking golden hair out of his eyes and looking like he couldn`t care less. _At least one of us can control his bloody emotions._

“Had a great time together before you left King’s Landing, eh?” Sandor rasped mockingly in return, glancing at his fucking _friend._

“Tremendous,” the Lion sighed. “I… you know, she never used to _annoy_ me before. Not like she did at the end.”

“Sansa used to annoy the shit out of _me,_ ” Sandor muttered.

“Yes, well – but really… who doesn`t? I can only imagine your bewilderment at realizing that you actually _liked_ someone. Still can`t quite comprehend why _she_ fell for _you_ , though” Jaime replied unconcerned, making Sandor grunt in reluctant agreement as it confused him no end as well. “Still,” the Lion continued. “Cersei was always easy to anger, but… it was all a game to me, turning her blows to kisses and her fury to quite another kind of passion. And then I came back a hand short. Might as well have had my cock chopped off.”

“Bloody hell,” Sandor snorted mirthfully as Jaime grinned at the dark japes of life. “Lucky as shit Vargo Hoat didn`t go for your balls then.”

“Yes, but that was part of the problem, I believe.” The Lion gazed straight ahead, looking as arrogant as ever even though his voice became tinted by a wry kind of bitterness. “Cersei always thought it a grand mistake that it was _me_ that was born with them in the first place.” 

Riding out on the road towards the fields where the Vale’s forces stood lined up and ready, their banners limp but looking as fresh as an army could, Sandor couldn`t help but wonder all over again about how Jaime had managed the life he`d led before. Listening to the king fucking his woman… when the bugger wasn`t insulting her by fucking everyone else... 

But then the sibling point barged into his musings and all compassion fell away immediately. Seven hells, imagine fucking his _own_ sister if she`d been allowed to come of age? Raven-haired and tall… Alida might even have grown up to be beautiful. It was a relief that his own instant shudder beat the faint echoes of her pleas for help, the memories of her fright for what was bound to happen when night fell and their knightly father had been drinking. Somehow, it was comforting that the twinge inside him turned sickening at the thought of fucking someone in his own family, as well as by his memories.

As they neared the fields, the weak morning sun broke through the mist and glinted off the soldiers’ armour, making surcoats and cloaks stand out against the hazy white background. It was a decent sized army, no doubt about it. Ten thousand fighting men, according to the Lords Declarant, cavalry included. Twice as many people in total with the supply train, camp followers, washerwomen, craftsmen and all. Fuck, the feudal levy of the Vale must feel damn high for the peasants right now – Bronze Yohn must have rooted out every fucking farmer’s son over twelve years for this.

Rows on rows of halberds and pikes pointed at the sky, mirroring the bare branches of the trees at the edges of the fields. The units of cavalry were waiting patiently in lines between the infantry and crossbowmen – they even had a unit of proper archers with longbows strapped to their backs – all of them having separate banners with bleeding _streamers_ in front, dressed up enough for a fucking tournament. _What the hell do they think this is? A bloody parade?_ They probably did, though, not having taken part in the War of the Five Kings at all, half of the soldiers fresh recruits and the rest grown fat and forgetful since Robert’s rebellion.

Sansa rode like the queen she could be if she wanted to, her dark blue skirts looking nice against Guardian’s chestnut fur and the auburn locks curling out from under her hood. The natural air with which she took her place at the head of the great houses of the Vale, and the easy way she was conversing with their leader, made the ranks of peasants and nobles alike understand exactly who was approaching if they had any brains at all. She bloody well looked royal.

Sandor watched her as she rode forward, taking the lead and somehow managing to make Bronze Yohn look like a servant following her, the Lords Declarant and riverlords alike lining up behind her on either side of Sandor and Jaime. Sansa’s Inner Guard took up stances in a half-circle around them all on Brienne’s sharp command, making Sandor’s mouth twitch in amusement at the affronted expressions crossing their faces. They obviously found her relentless way of taking charge annoying as hell, as they knew very well what to do – Sandor himself had drilled every stage of their duties into their heads only yesterday, after all.

Sansa didn`t speak until the company of riverlanders was lined up like Sandor had ordered and everybody else stood in neat ranks between them and her – she just sat there looking like the queen of winter, patiently waiting with a half-smile on her lips. It was enough to get the complete attention of everybody present without lifting a finger. No blare from horns or stewards shouting for silence were heard, no messages down the lines, and still… the silence was absolute when she finally opened her mouth, speaking loud and clear though her voice sounded a little strained at forcing her words to lift into the cold air, unused to ever raising her voice. It didn`t matter, the men were already unnaturally attentive – as if by bleeding magic.

“I thank you all for coming. I thank you all for leaving your wives and children, the comfort of peace and abundance, to come to the aid of the riverlands. To support the north, to support me, to fight under the direwolf of House Stark once more,” she started, letting her gaze slide over the lines of soldiers and knights. “You know as well as I do that what we are about to embark on will end in stories to make your grandchildren weep; that not all of you will return home; that returning home is not always the same as returning whole.” Bronze Yohn was glancing curiously at her from his stoic bay, the nobles sitting side by side with Sandor trying hard to not shit in their saddles. _What the hell are you up to this time, Little Bird?_

Sansa paused as her words were repeated down the lines, reaching the men at the back before she continued, looking so bloody _controlled_ in her grand lady role as several thousand eyes focussed on her with renewed intensity. “I cannot guarantee the survival of all of you. Warfare in winter is hard. Warfare in this particular part of the world will demand all of your skills, all of your backbone – it will demand that every single one of you fight just as hard for the safety of your loved ones at home as for me. We are about to ride into the frozen hells, after all.”

Someone cheered, but the silence laid as a blanket over the fields, the yellow light of the sun through the fog making it all seem… _fucking eerie._ Sansa gave the repetition of her words time to reach the back again before raising her voice, the way her mouth nearly ended in something akin to a wry smile making Sandor bleeding nervous for what other madness she had up her sleeves. “I am telling you the truth. The truth every man-at-arms know about the soldier’s life you are all leading. No pretty words.” Yes, her smile was definitely wry. “You all know the Targaryens will come. That _we_ need to stand back to back and fight for our _common_ survival. That the fight for our future lies here, in the riverlands.” Her voice had somehow turned to a knife-edge, cutting through the lines of men with the intensity of her words. “There will be songs written about what we are about to go through with. We are here to create a tomorrow and right now, _you_ are the heroes: for standing here, armed and ready; for leaving your homes; for embracing winter as a lover when going to war. And most of all because you know in your hearts…” Her true smile reached them all. “That after winter comes spring.” 

The roar at her last words was deafening, the men at the rear throwing in their support without even hearing the last part as weapons and fists were raised into the air and startled birds took flight from the trees. She raised her dainty fist in return, bloody saluting them while sitting quietly as Guardian danced underneath her, before turning him around towards her attendees again.

“Let the word be spread that what I _will_ guarantee is compensation to their families if they fall. I hope you have listed your men thoroughly? Peasants by village, not just by region?” Sandor heard Sansa murmur to Bronze Yohn as the horns signalled over the fields. 

The old, gnarled knight looked bemusedly down at the true daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. “I can assure you that we have, my lady.” 

“Good,” she replied, with a touch of the note she used when praising her horse, making Bronze Yohn chuckle and Sansa give him a quick, mischievous grin. “And let them know about the supplies from Gulltown, my lord, so they`re assured they won`t run out of either food or wine on a campaign that I`m sure they`re certain will make women throw themselves at them as their saviours.” There was not a man listening around her that didn`t grin at that, completely missing the faint trace of irony in her voice, Bronze Yohn included. Seven hells, she knew how to handle them.

The vanguard had gone into motion as they spoke, the foreriders taking the lead as the forward detachment of scouts cantered down the road. The main body of the van followed suit, marching out of the snowy fields with the civil officials in their midst. Harbingers whose job was to locate lodgings for the army for the following night rode swift rounceys behind them and trumpeters enough to carry messages and summon whatever the hell the lords wished were in there too. Then followed a body of workmen ready to clear obstacles out of the way of the wagons travelling with the main ward, leading the garrons functioning both as pack-horses with their equipment and as workhorses. Lastly, a unit of crossbowmen in matching surcoats marched at their rear, carrying pavises as well as their weapons to have something to hide behind if they were attacked on the road.

The lords and ladies ended up being placed in the middle of the main ward and Wode _had_ managed to make the Lord of Runestone agree to give the riverlanders the place of honour at their rear. Which was as good as it got, Sandor had to admit. They marched before the highly guarded baggage train, surrounded by units of infantry on both flanks, pikemen followed by smaller squads of cavalry placed both before and after them. 

Most of the knights were placed before the grand party, but what caught Sandor’s attention was the sombre unit of longbowmen tailing the knights leading the main. The archers were bearded and burley peasants from the rocky hillsides of the Vale, according to that Redford married to Bronze Yohn’s daughter. Bloody goat herders the lot of them, having practiced their skills to perfection on raiding mountain-clans since they were wrapped in swaddling clothes. 

Their yellow bows, long as the man carrying it, were a nightmare to master and thrust forth from behind the shoulders of those who were the bleeding best at it anyway. From each man’s girdle hung a sword or an axe, depending on what the man preferred to reach for when his arrows were spent. They didn`t march like soldiers, they strode along as if they were herding livestock to market, leathern quivers jutting out over their right hips with their bristle of goose and pigeon feathers. 

Sandor had never seen a fucking _unit_ of longbowmen before, but had met enough decent archers throughout his life to know the value of even a few of those who truly knew their trade. And these were supposed to be supreme, firing an arrow every fifth second for as long as there were feathers in front of them, if what Ser Mychel said was true. The units of crossbowmen in flashy surcoats could shove their weapons up their arses against the rate of fire and sheer accuracy of the lot in homespun peasants’ clothes, according to him. Sandor could only silently agree when reckoning out the horror the two hundred plain looking men could unleash amongst cavalry and foot alike when armed with armour-penetrating bodkin points and horse-maiming broadheads. He`d been in enough rounds of crossfire himself to feel it in his bones.

The middle part of the main ward consisted of Lady Stark’s party of riverlords and the lords of the Vale, their attendees and servants, and the company of riverlanders marching behind them with expressions of tired awe at finally receiving reinforcement. Behind them in the baggage train came fifty sumpter-horses carrying tent-poles, cloth, spare arms, wedges, cooking kettles, horse-shoes, bags of nails, and the hundred other things which experience had shown to be needful in a harried and hostile country. The hay and grain wagons were pulled by teams of oxen; the wheat, rye, oats and barley for bread and beer sealed off from the elements by large oiled canvases strapped tightly over the burlap sacks. Beans and peas for soups were stored in barrels – so were apples and dried berries. 

They were fucking well supplied with food, actually. The fat bugger of Gulltown had tried to look down his nose _up_ at Sandor when he asked him about supplies, but had answered eagerly enough as long as he could brag loftily about his own involvement in providing it. Hoping Sandor would tell Lady Stark, no doubt, trying to sneak into her good graces again… Bloody hell, the idiot could go hang himself for all Sandor cared, but asparagus, beets, carrots, celery, cabbage and radishes were still a good stock of vegetables. Armies had fallen to pieces before for lack of food: fatigued soldiers fighting on stomachs filled with too small or too drab rations had seldom won kingdoms. The exception being the bloody-minded stamina of Stannis at Storm’s End with the help of that onion knight, holding the stronghold until Ned Stark smashed Mace Tyrell, marking the end of the war.

They had grapes for wine and honey for mead beverages as well, hazelnuts and walnuts from the woods, and chickens, ducks and geese, which made a racket in their wooden cages. Salted and dried fish and meat from cows, pigs and sheep were transported in large casks on large wagons pulled by heavy draft-horses. _And_ as food was worth more than gold nowadays, the baggage train was guarded more closely than a Silent Sister’s cunt.

Next came the camp followers, camp-wives and washerwomen sitting on wagons doing chores with children running beside them. Cooks, woodworkers and blacksmiths walked side by side with fletchers and leatherworkers as well as servants and healers of varying quality. He even spotted a brown robe here and there. The orphans were stationed in the mass somewhere too, Sandor knew, but they disappeared in the throng of all the people needed to make the army function. 

Long rows of infantry walked behind them until the rear ward with its knights, mounted squires and light cavalry made the end of the long column of steel and leather. Ser Mychel had the command, with the knight of Wickenden as his second. Lucas Corbray was placed with the van and Bronze Yohn commanded the knights in the main as well as the complete army, the rest was a matter of good seconds and discipline. 

Sandor rode deep in his own thoughts, trying to ignore the increasingly throbbing pain of his side and leg as the hours went by, moving his arm in the exercises Elder Brother had taught him. The sun had broken through the cold mist of the morning, and by midday it was shining brilliantly down upon the white-clad world as they travelled downriver, the broad road soon following the Trident’s banks once more. His mood wouldn`t quite lift, though – even if the fog had – and he ended up brooding his head off, his thoughts spiralling downwards no matter what he wanted.

He was quite frankly flaming unsure of how to handle the responsibility the Lion had pushed on him in a winesick moment of brain loss. Still, it seemed Jaime and Sansa had talked a lot when Sandor lay flat out in a pain-haze, that she had planned to bestow it upon him at some point anyway. Which was fine enough when talking about commanding squads ambushing enemies or a company composed of horse and infantry when engaging in battle. He`d commanded plenty of those, had fought and bled and gotten insanely drunk side by side with the men-at-arms that had been his responsibility for a raid or a skirmish or whatever the hell his old masters had wanted. But this was different.

Sansa obviously thought she had raised him to command the northern forces. Which were bloody well absent and probably split up beyond repair if not frozen solid under Stannis. So what he was _really_ commanding was the borrowed riverlanders and a bunch of brats. But the way she`d included him in her council had made the Lords Declarant listen to him anyway as they seemed fucking unsure of where to place him in their internal structure. They had obviously still been too dumbfounded by the young lady in their midst to put him anywhere else than where she`d intended him to be in the first place. Hence he`d been placed on equal footing with the bleeding _Lord of Runestone_ as far as martial matters were concerned, no matter his howling lack of forces. And how the hell would he stay afloat there? The task was massive, and for the first time in a buggering long time, Sandor felt that he lacked experience to do his duty. He had his education, though…

It had never been a question of _if_ Sandor would be a knight, but when. He was from a knightly house that knew perfectly well the privilege that had been given it through his grandfather’s service to the old lion. That Kelemen Clegane had paid with his leg for his lands, his keep and his son’s opportunities in life. That knighthood was expected to continue down the line, especially when two large, strong grandsons were produced.

Sandor had been tutored in the arts of war from before he could remember, being prepared for the day he would be old enough to be sent to squire. If Gregor hadn`t been around, he would have been happy as hell with the arrangement, getting away from all the tension in the great hall, knowing their old master of the household guard beat him around for Sandor’s _own_ sake. Unfortunately, having a ruthless bloody boulder as an older brother to train up against had made it all an eternal fight for survival instead.

Every glint of pride or contentment had been beaten out of him during those early years. He`d been a fairly good shot with a bow as a lad, but his father had not so much as bothered to look at him. He could take down everyone else approximately his own size, but that was never good enough because Gregor was bloody invincible. So much rage and frustration were needed to force down the agonising fright that had welled up in him every time he was put in the yard to be struck and kicked until he coughed blood, trying desperately to make his vision clear enough up for him to fucking _see_ where the next swipe came from. So many lonely nights trying to sleep with his nose filled with rags because the fucking thing refused to stop bleeding. He`d bled from his ears once, too, making even the cowed master of the guard protest on his behalf, but he couldn`t remember it clearly… He`d been six. Or seven. It must have been right before Gregor shoved his face into the coals… After Alida had sighed in relief when she died in his arms.

But there were a few things he`d _always_ been better at than the cruel bastard he`d had for a brother: tactics and remembering the old chronicles of war. And that was where he started to find the key to fighting the monster as well, outwitting the idiot by using his own speed and the knowledge of generations of fighting men. Sandor had been eight and filled with the burning hate only fire could invoke the first time he`d managed to strike his thirteen year old brother down, giving him a massive blow to the temple while kicking his legs out from under him a heartbeat later. Gregor had already squired for two years, was large as a man grown … and his friends from the Lannister household had been watching. And father had fucking laughed.

Then father had died.

 _Steadfast, honest, loyal._ What the hell was a lad to do with such family words? He knew what they bleeding _meant_ of course, having being drilled in the importance of remembering their origins, knowing his grandfather’s story inside out, feeling pride at his loyalty and courage. He knew they were meant to be a sober reminder of ambition as well. That such loyalty and courage could get you far in the world, that all dogs follow their masters both in hunts and war, but it was the best hound that was given the juicy bone for his efforts. He`d lived by those words after all… succeeded, too.

But what had gone through his head when watching the nasty glint in Gregor’s eyes as he sat in their father’s chair in the great hall, informing the household of their lord’s unfortunate death in a bloody _hunting_ accident, had been none of those things. It was that he would always remember how his brother had ripped his life apart, the pure fucking evil that lived deep inside his very being. The way mother had given up the fight against the same sort of hell, had stopped singing in her soft voice, had abandoned them as she fled that dark storm growing like a silent nightmare within their walls. How Gregor’s marks were all over Alida’s white, still body. 

And then he`d left. 

Everything but his own intense hate. To become a knight, to best Gregor. Still so damned naïve as to believe that someone would react, _someone_ would add the numbers and drag his brother to trial for kinslaying. Fucking believing he would be beheaded. He`d murdered his family; of course he would bleed for it. 

Instead Rhaegar Targaryen had bloody well knighted him.

Sandor’s dark thoughts wouldn`t stop going in circles, not helped by getting increasingly cold and feeling more and more like shit during the hours mounted in the winter sun. They made progress on the road at least. With no need for foraging – if living off the land had even been possible – they marched at a pretty high speed with few and short breaks, managing to cover nearly seventeen miles before nightfall. The van kept sending messengers back with information about the terrain, the road, the burned-out villages they would pass through, finally reporting back with an appropriate campsite an hour before dusk. 

Sansa had mostly been ignoring him since they`d started out. Or more likely, she had been busy. Talking to the lords as they rode, probably mapping out everything from when they last changed smallclothes to schemes they didn`t even know they were participating in. She read reports handed to her by Elder Brother and studied folded drawings of the Targaryens’ supposed dragons. And she didn`t even _glance_ in his direction unless it was by coincidence. 

In the eyes of the nobles, Sandor and Jaime were there simply as her sworn shield and commander of her forces and thus couldn`t just ride up and talk to her without reason, especially as neither of them was summoned. Throughout the entire day. And fuck him how it itched, riding the acceptable two horse lengths behind her and watching her smile politely at something Wallace Waynwood said, when Sandor would have traded almost anything for just riding side by side with her like they used to over the mountains.

The short breaks turned out to be equally fruitless on the matter of even getting her to look properly at him. She helped out with the smaller orphans at _every_ flaming stop, smilingly feeding the little pissed off creature she`d gotten them stuck with or singing some annoyingly merry tune together with Lady Mallister and Pia. It never seemed fit to approach her, and after having stood in fucking attendance for half an hour beside the Lion without receiving anything else than a quick smile, he gave up. He hurt too bloody much all over by then to waste his breaks standing up, and if she didn`t have the time for even a short stroll alongside him pretending to discuss something important, then so be it. He`d _known_ she wouldn`t be his to be with whenever he wished anymore, so why the hell did it feel like a mighty slap in the face? 

The cold was starting to get to him, too, as if all the other shit wasn`t enough, and his feet and hands threatening to fall off any moment didn`t exactly make his mood better either. Mounting again when they left the last short pause was as pleasant as being carried through the seven burning hells tied to a hurdle, and afterwards all Sandor could do was clench his teeth and endure. Which in one way was a fucking blessing because he wasn`t able to think at all those last leagues, just hold on, trying not to feel wounded in every way possible. Trying not to need her so bloody much. 

The Lion tried to engage him in conversation an unholy number of times, glancing sideways at him when Sandor only grunted sourly in return until he gave up at some point. Still, Jaime’s gaze never stopped flickering over the men and the surroundings and his hand kept caressing his sword hilt. He did his duty relentlessly, keeping Sansa safe so Sandor could concentrate on breathing evenly in and out as the pain of his side slowly melted together with his aching leg and throbbing arm: blooming into pure, pulsing agony. He _hated_ feeling as useless as this, but it actually helped that Brienne too had him covered, riding on the left hand side before them on Daisy and doing her own duty flawlessly. The female warrior looked stubborn as fuck, lashing out if the inner guard so much as got a hair out of line, riling the shit out of them no doubt, actually providing some entertainment whenever Sandor could cope long enough to look.

Still, it was a massive relief when Stranger finally limped piteously beside Smith into the clearing they would spend the night in, the black beast sighing deeply in unison with Sandor as the dun halted. Bugger him, but just getting down felt like too much to ask. He felt his face stiffen into impassiveness and held onto it for all he was worth as he rasped the standard commands to Wode and Ser Ellery when they rode up to him – telling the two bastards what they already knew about sentries and lines of report, adding in a direct command placing them around Lady Stark’s tent to make it go through with the Vale’s seconds.

Wondering why the hell he`d just kept the two sers out of trouble with Bronze Yohn’s men on the touchy subject of honour when he should have enjoyed watching them struggle, he noted with dim satisfaction the structured way the van had started on the camp. At least the men of the Vale knew their tasks, the effective routine of the main as they were released from marching order suggesting that campaigns were not completely forgotten by the veterans. That the training of the recruits was thorough. The party of lords and ladies dissolved as well, squires and servants rushing in to lead away horses and serve mulled wine to their masters, bowing and curtsying like mad. 

Sandor exchanged a glance with Jaime as Sansa took Bronze Yohn’s offered arm gracefully, the Lion flinging Glory’s reins to Peck before following her towards the area where the nobles’ tents were being hastily erected in the last pinkish light still lingering over the old forest. No invitation was offered for _Sandor_ to join them, she didn`t even glance in his direction, obviously dismissing him out of her presence to do his fucking duties. The duties he`d already done for the time being, the rest of it needing the blasted lord she was holding onto to be conducted. 

_Or…_ did she fucking think he should follow like a good dog and ask bloody permission to join so she could pat him on his head in pubic? Feeling his temper rise hotly at being treated like some lame, toothless old mastiff for an entire day, he let the company of riverlanders pass by on Ser Ellery’s brusque order, refusing stubbornly to be used as a bloody puppet no matter what they had between them. 

The only other explanation was that she might not know _all_ the ways of handling the different stations in martial hierarchy yet, despite her obviously having been drilled a hellish amount about the political finesses. That actually sounded reasonable enough, he had to grudgingly admit. But then he remembered that she was also quite clearly tutored in the art of getting her way around men. By Littlefinger. _Shit! I`ve forgotten to tell her about Baelish and the Goldcloaks._ If it even mattered anymore. She seemed so fucking spoiled with information that she probably knew about it anyway. Bugger him, this was driving him insane… 

Sandor’s mood darkened another notch, dropping to well below the seven bitterly freezing hells as he watched her laugh prettily at something the gnarled old knight was telling her. So fucking ladylike, and so out of reach as she collected Willow and inclined her head at Elder Brother who left to find his tent. Ser Ellery and Wode were shouting instructions to the units of men dispersing to take on different tasks, and _Sandor_ was left without anything more practical to do than look like waste. Though he would sooner dress himself in feathers than crawl wretchedly down from Smith in front of the soldiers, _that_ was for sure. _Bugger them all._

So he ended up scowling down the ranks of moving men while brooding on what Sansa wanted with him at all, suddenly getting a nasty suspicion that she`d _knowingly_ put him midway between two chairs of office. She had played the lords easy as fuck yesterday, after all… having an unnervingly good grasp of what she was doing… Did she intend him to continue on like this as a bloody councillor for Bronze Yohn, but without real forces? Did she really think Sandor wouldn`t notice? He`d been the first fucking one who`d ever taught her about the true ways of life, she should know he wasn`t a bloody lackwit to bow and scrape, too stupid to notice the underlying message. 

He tried to wave the dark, roiling feeling in the pit of his stomach off as irrational, but still couldn`t help himself when he instantly felt a new and quite different pang at the thought that every second man-at-arms bloody well muttered ‘Hound’ after ‘Commander’ when they knuckled their forehead at him. Maybe she _did_ need to keep him down without seeming to. But why couldn`t she just lower herself from her fucking pedestal and _tell_ him? And _if_ that was the case, how did she expect him to make them shut up on a name he wasn`t quite sure he was done with himself? Unlike him _not_ being a bleeding knight, he`d been the Hound for half his life, for fuck’s sake! 

She had said straight out that she needed her dog and lion leashed to her wrist to get them accepted in her council, that she needed to show them that she was no Lannister pet. But if _that_ was all his bleeding service had come down to, he would rather not know. A mixture of feeling manipulated and pure fury boiled rapidly through his veins as his side screamed red forks of raging pain up his spine, down his legs, the bad leg answering with a jarring pulsing of its own. And the worst part was that his anger did nothing to stop him from glancing up from the last rank of saluting riverlanders, watching her back disappear through a bronze-coloured tent-flap. It left him trying hard not feel fucking lost because she wasn`t with him, frustrating himself into bloody exasperation. 

“Commander? Do you need help, Commander?” _By the Crone’s sour cunt…_

Opening his jammed jaw to answer felt strangely half-real. But still, there he was, the stick in clothes holding Smith’s reins, strangest little lad in history, obviously worried like fuck instead of unnerved by the expression that had made Wode sweat stiff-necked in his icy armour. 

“No, sod off,” Sandor started irritably, trying to lift his leg over the dun’s back now that the camp-followers were streaming by and the soldiers had passed – to no other avail than making himself grunt in pain as the world caught fire and swirled at the same time. 

“Sure?” Stickboy had the nerve to reply, patting Smith’s nose.

“No,” Sandor grumbled as he realised to his own _immense_ annoyance that he had no fucking way of dismounting without help. “Get Brienne for me, and _then_ sod off.”

Watching the heels of the little bugger disappear after Lady Stark’s entourage as the camp was set around him in the rapidly falling dusk, he nudged Smith and an exhausted Stranger on, pretending to inspect the site instead of sitting there looking like a fucking fool on a donkey. 

It bloody well worked, though. Every workman increased his speed when Sandor’s gaze fell on him, every man-at-arms straightened and knuckled his forehead as he rode by in the darkening forest. Remembering his own response when Lord Tywin had been inspecting the ranks was firstly making him feel fucking misplaced, but on a sharp second came the realisation of how the _soldiers_ saw him as commander, at least – no matter how Sansa put him to use. Which brought his thoughts right back to how he would be able keep his head above water in his new bloody position…

Occupied by glaring down the picket lines and making the grooms nervous, he gave up on trying to figure out what the Lady of Winterfell _truly_ had in store for him and started handling the task he at least thought he`d received. Reckoning out how much of the ragged remains of the Young Wolf’s forces he could rely on still being spread out in the riverlands, for instance, and how much of that number again would rally for Sansa…

It felt like no time at all before Brienne came striding into view with Stickboy trotting at her heels, looking hard as rock as men and women alike dived out of her way. Sandor’s anger had turned into the simmering fury that had always kept him moving forwards in life, having something straightforward to latch onto. He was bloody good at working himself up the ranks, and Sansa would soon discover that trying to keep him as a puppet worked just as well as keeping her as a figurehead. _Fuck me if she won`t._

Brienne simply bowed to him and walked up on the right side of the dun. “Thanks for the advice, Sandor,” she murmured, pronouncing his name somewhat hesitantly even though a shadow of a grin crossed her face as she gripped his right forearm. As if they hadn`t seen each other for ages. “I`ve one or two who will try to jump me by tomorrow morning if I`ve estimated their temper right.” And then she simply shoved her other hand under his bad leg and bloody well lifted him out of the saddle, steadying him completely by their common grasp of each others arms and letting him dismount without looking like a fat old lord being carried to his chair, _even_ if it hurt like hell. 

“Bugger me, Brienne…” he rasped under his breath when he was able to again, refraining from making a point out of what she`d just said _could_ be understood as. Instead he found himself looking at her with a mixture of impressed surprise at her strength, even though he should`ve known she was strong enough to hold him like that, and flaming gratitude at her discretion. 

“You`re welcome,” she replied, smiling sweetly at him as Stickboy showed his stones by grabbing Stranger’s reins with the determined expression of a man on his way to the gallows and no intention of showing his fears. The boy’s thin back looked peculiar – to say it mildly – between both of Sandor’s massive mounts as he led them away to be tethered and fed, their rumps moving with irregular rhythm behind him due to Stranger’s heavy limp. He did it without being told, though, he should have that. “All we need now is to get you over to your tent.”

Sandor felt his mouth twitch into a wry grin through the pain as the still bloody unfamiliar feeling of somehow feeling _better_ by the presence of others filled him, and laid his sword-arm around her shoulders as if he simply wanted to. “We`re such a pretty pair Beauty, that not even Jaime will have the bleeding heart to protest me trying my luck with you in public,” he muttered.

She actually laughed in earnest at that, and folded her powerful arm around his waist, letting him lean on her without showing the strain in the least. Tightening the muscles of the right side of his stomach, he managed to start walking, his sore and cold body protesting like mad as Brienne more or less held him along as they pretended to stroll in the direction of the tents. 

“You know why they call me Beauty, don`t you?” she asked as her mirth abated.

“Jaime said something about a bunch of arses betting on who would manage to be the first to get his cock inside you,” he replied, trying hard to focus forwards instead of counting steps.

“Yes… Well, it started before _that…_ But… I just wanted to tell you that I don`t mind you calling me that,” Brienne muttered, glancing at him. “I don`t know why, but when _you_ say it in front of the men, it somehow comes off as _you_ mocking _them,_ and… and that you`re defending me... in a way.”

Sandor looked at her, surprised. “Seven hells, Brienne…” he grumbled awkwardly. “It`s the bleeding truth. You were beautiful as fuck when you struck that puffed up knight down with his own shield yesterday… and ‘Beauty’ isn`t that bad – what do you think _I`ve_ been called through the years?” he rasped, making her blink at him with those enormous eyes.

“Um… I don`t know. A lot of things, probably,” she murmured, clearly uncomfortable and with a faint heat spreading across her face.

A lot of things. Well, bugger him if that wasn`t the understatement of the century… “Embrace what you can stomach and use it against the bloody half-wits,” he grunted sourly, feeling the memory of the old flash of panic when he`d found out that _whispers_ were impossible to beat out of people – they just spread like wildfire. “They couldn`t come up with enough ways to call me ugly or spit on me as a scorched stray, so I stopped protesting and became the royal family’s feared watchdog on fucking purpose. Made it my own. It`s all a matter of twisting the control out of their grasp. So it stops hitting its target in you – stops hurting you.” Why in the seven buggering hells was he telling her these things? This was a topic best left in a dark corner of his mind, not something to be _told,_ flaming undermining himself… 

Brienne’s gaze met his searchingly, her freckled and scarred face serious, making Sandor speculate for a heartbeat how many times her nose had been broken, and why her wide mouth for some reason didn`t look strange to him anymore. “I wish Galladon could have lived and grown up to be more like you,” she said quietly, looking him straight in the eye with a fucking unnerving sincerity. Galladon? Who the fuck was _Galladon?_

He didn`t get a chance to ask before they were met by servants bringing the mulled wine he should have received at their arrival, the gits showing him to his tent and informing him with down cast eyes that _m’lord Commander’s food_ would be brought to him as soon as possible. He threw down the steaming wine in desperate need of dulling the insanely annoying gnawing of his side and was quickly steered inside the spacious tent by Brienne, the servants still fastening its sides to the ground and carrying foldable furniture in through the tent flaps. 

“Here,” she muttered, snatching the cloth-wrapped jug out of the grasp of the spluttering man who was tailing them and shoved it into Sandor’s hand. “Just pretend to be sober if Sansa comes by… but, you know… don`t lie, it would be dishonest. Actually, just tell her I gave it to you.” Sandor simply stared incredulously at her, wondering how the hell she could have such a backbone and none at all at the same time, concluding that it was her fucking chivalry that ruined her every time. She swallowed and released him, but quickly got hold of herself again before he lost patience with her more knightly qualities. “I`ll get Vance, Ryger and Redford for you – and the seconds when they`re finished. I don`t know if Bronze Yohn will come or if you`ll have to go to him afterwards, but it`ll buy you some time at least.”

“Seems you know the drill,” he grumbled in return, somewhat surprised at how comfortable she seemed with the routines of an army on the move and the tasks that befell her superiors in rank. As far as he knew she was as yet un-bloodied in battle. 

She gave him a quick grin in return as he dropped the cup, put the still warm jug to his mouth and drank in large swallows, but there was something vulnerable in her eyes as she spoke. “I was a king’s bodyguard as well, remember. King Renly’s great _wench…_ Brienne the Blue.” _Ah, bloody hell… she threw her heart at him, didn`t she?_ Which brought him back to why Jaime and Sansa would want two overgrown fighters with scars enough for a complete squad of veterans. _Jaime is lost beyond rescue, though, and Sansa… loves me._

Unfortunately, the way she was ignoring him made the thought sort of vague, a thousand insecurities butting in to make it all feel slightly unreal. He couldn`t quite come to grips with the fact that she gave everybody else attention, but not him. Holding up their pretences was one thing, but as he _was_ her flaming commander no matter what she put into it, and it would soon be noticed that she hardly spoke to him. First by the nobles and then by the men, ruining his authority if nothing else. _By the Stranger, I`m fucked…_ Repeatedly, actually. By her. And all he bloody well wanted was to bury his face in her neck and hold her. _Frustrating beyond belief._

A hard-faced woman in drab grey clothing and with hands calloused after a life of rough work folded out a chair beside an equally foldable trestle table and threw a black sheepskin over it with a curt _m’lord._ The ground was covered in a thick carpet and brass buckets filled with hot stones were making the tent somewhat lukewarm. He even had a pallet. _And_ oil-lamps. Despite the fact that neither he nor Brienne could stand straight in it, the tent was a bloody luxury in comparison to what he was used to sleeping in on campaigns. 

The grumpy old wench bobbed a curtsy and jostled the other servants out with a sour twist to her mouth the moment they were done. Sandor didn`t care two shits. Sinking down in the sturdy chair as Brienne disappeared out into the night as well, he forced his throbbing body to relax and possibly get warm again, tried to wrap his mind around the things he was _supposed_ to think about. The defensive strategies while on the road, for instance, not the flash of how he could fuck Sansa on that pallet. If she wanted to. But she _would_ want to, wouldn`t she? Even if she braided his position into her political game, she`d still been kissing him heatedly last night, so wet for him that he could enter her without even using his hand… 

The last of the evening went fast after that. Stickboy soon came reeling into the tent carrying Sandor’s saddlebags before he managed to stir himself up in a frenzy. The boy laid out the bedroll, found the winecup Sandor had dropped and served him the last of the mulled wine while an intricate report of how Stranger and Smith were cared for poured out of him. By then Sandor had already drunk enough to be able to breathe deeply without wanting to hit someone. Enough to warm him up to the point where he could feel his feet and hands again, as well. Not that _that_ was an especially pleasant experience… Still, the roiling mess within him calmed down as the wine worked, until he found his footing enough shake his head at how a single young woman could make him completely loose his balance like that in the first place. 

So he let the lad bustle about, relieving Sandor of his armour and fumbling around in the saddlebags in search of brushes, gypsum, cloth and oil to clean it with. He even felt his mouth twitch in amusement when the little bugger flat out refused to admit that Stranger had bitten him – despite the fact that his cloak bore the distinctive marks of horse-teeth. 

The food was brought shortly after that. A lot of it. Roasted goat on wide plates and pots with stewed vegetables, supplied with enough ale to drown a cow. Sandor didn`t even have the time to raise his brow before Redford and Corbray turned up carrying maps and wooden casks containing sets of pieces. Ser Mychel rubbed his cold hands together and informed Sandor that his good-father expected to be informed of their results when they were done just as Ryger, Piper and Peckledon crowded in. _‘Informed of their results,’ seven hells…_ If that wasn`t a clear way of notifying Sandor that Bronze Yohn would let him play with the knights, but that the real decisions were his to make, nothing was.

“I`m standing in for Paege,” Peck said defensively when Sandor’s gaze fell on him, adding a bow for good measure even though Sandor had the clear feeling that that particular squire had it in for him.

“Found a wench,” Little Lew added matter-of-factly, his face having taking on the same vivid colour as his hair from the cold, receiving an exasperated stare from Peck.

“He didn`t refuse orders, Commander, we simply couldn`t find him,” Peck said, straightening. “If he knew he was supposed to be here, he would have rolled out from between her thighs instantly.” Sandor just looked flatly at them from his chair, even though he too certainly had had a fair share of stupid priorities when cunts were involved during his own time as a squire. _Fucking youngsters._

Two knights in new surcoats rescued Jaime’s trio of squires from digging latrines the rest of the night by entering a moment before Wode and Ser Ellery appeared. The two shiny seconds of the Vale presented themselves as Ser Symon Blacksunder and Ser Hobb Tens, both of the bloody tourney knights doing their best not to look Sandor too closely in his face. And then Vance dragged Waxley into the tent to make the commotion complete.

Karyl Vance placed two of his guards at the entrance and sent another to fetch stools before they set to work as they ate their food and drank their ale. First, they marked off today’s march and sent squires running with orders for stewards and officials to prepare for the crossing of the Trident at Lord Harroway’s Town. Lord Root would be insane to refuse them passage, but the formalities needed to be upheld nonetheless and messengers would be sent thundering down the road at dawn.

It was also more than likely that they would gain recruits in bloody large numbers in the town itself. The autumn flood had fucked up the whole area, making the possibility of dying on a battlefield a hell of a lot more tempting than certain death by starvation. That Ser Eldar bastard had given enough details about the situation inside the town for Sandor to agree wholeheartedly when Vance suggested sending scribes with the van to start adding men to their books.

“And women,” Robin Ryger added in his gruff way, stroking over his bald head with a large hand. “If Lady Sansa signs mere girls into her ranks from the orphans, she can`t refuse female recruits.”

There was a considerable amount of grievance from the men about that, sideways glances and grumbles about everything from the dishonour of letting women die in combat to their inability to become good soldiers. And that was before Waxley started whining about how every single one of them probably would end up heavy with child before they reached Riverrun.

Sandor let them run out of breath, drinking the dark ale and feeling a strange relief at being able to get as drunk as he wanted without being harried. Sansa wouldn`t turn up in his tent, and he had no intention of getting pissed or anything. When Ryger had held a somewhat reluctant speech of defence for the girls he had been training for the last few weeks and Wode had stupidly concluded that _Brienne_ was a woman, Sandor simply cleared his throat and ruled over them.

“Every childless woman who wants to can join the ranks,” he rasped. “As long as they`re over twelve years old. The rest may seek hire as washerwomen, cooks, line up as possible camp-wives or whatever else they find better than begging in the streets with toddlers strapped to their backs.” They blinked at him. “Go argue with Brienne if you want to continue this discussion.”

Piper grinned widely, probably at the thought of nailing pretty female recruits to the ground, and Ryger chuckled darkly, glancing at him. The rest shut up. Bloody marvellous.

The talk turned to hedgehogs instead, continuing on where they left off yesterday. The Vale’s army possessed an impressive number of crossbowmen, supplied with the much more intriguing longbowmen Sandor had studied earlier. Mychel Redford bubbled over with renewed enthusiasm and Blacksunder added his vote for them as ‘above average usable even if they are mere peasants.’ 

Vance and Piper had been at the receiving end of enough Lannister ambushes to know exactly what was needed to escape them more or less in one piece, and Sandor had _carried out_ enough Lannister ambushes to know what Vance didn`t. In Sansa’s council, they had started on the plans for the most effective way of making van, main and rear ward into deadly necks using whatever terrain available, placing the archers high and letting the enemy flow into the traps before they understood what was happening. It was a good start, but the plan needed to be nailed down to orders.

Waxley, the Knight of fucking Wickenden, who`d been silent as an oyster yesterday, obviously felt personally offended by not receiving loud cheers of agreement when he _now_ stated his opinion that a strong charge was all that was needed to get the Lions onto their meagre backs. But apart from him, the others seemed more prone to listen to reason, agreeing instantly to use the pikes for what they were worth and spare the cavalry until last.

Ryger and Vance stated what Sandor already suspected about the riverlanders: that they`d grown used to changing formation quickly and always had several backup tactics ready if one failed. The seconds of the Vale looked more doubtful as to how fast their forces were able to not only get new commands through in the middle of an assault, but also unable to tell if they would be able to follow up on fighting on the riverlanders’ premise. 

It seemed to surprise them that this was a new kind of desperate warfare that demanded that they always fought as if they were behind enemy lines. That the old kind of line-up before battle had been extinguished with the honourable men who lay dead under the snow they would soon be passing over. Old, chivalrous beliefs or not, the fact they had to face was that numbers were not always an advantage, as the Lannister forces had discovered a bit too late. 

“We need to drill the men into extraordinary mobility if we have any intentions of getting through this area with our skins intact,” Vance said seriously, looking straight at Blacksunder and Hobb – who obviously tried hard not to make a point about the birthmark covering half of Lord Karyl’s face. “We`re an all too obvious target as it is, but splitting up will make our supply line vulnerable for sacking. We can`t afford that.” No they couldn`t. Simple as that. The man acted the supreme cock towards Jaime, but Sandor had to grudgingly give him points for his brain on other matters. _Fuck…_

“The lady has a bloody great point about the Vale’s resources being the deciding factor to tilt the scales in our favour, both against the Lannisters and the Targaryens. It would be nice to keep that intact without having to retrieve what is ours,” Piper added with a hitch to his square shoulders, something slightly cocky about him. By the Warrior’s bad habits, that red-haired bastard would make a raider from the hells. _Was_ already a raider from the hells. 

Sandor watched his knuckles slide up and down the side of his cup before raising his gaze, having pondered on this topic for a while. “What we need to do is twist every advantage our way. We know the Lannisters will use every leveraged strategic factor they can come up with. Terrain, speed and surprise are one part, focussed pinpoint attacks to defeat us as a larger foe the other. We have to expect that our van and rear guard are bound to be harried the fuck out of, every messenger feathered – and as soon as we`re into the thick of it lone outriders can just as well cut their own throats and be done with it.” The riverlanders nodded as one, having had their illusions shattered long ago. Waxley simply looked bored.

Mychel Redford, on the other hand, was clearly smart enough to read the riverlanders’ reactions even though his expression still showed doubt. “Surely, Commander… the _real_ threat must be the Targaryens. I understand the necessity of not underestimating the danger of the Lions raiding our supplies and baggage train, and that they will of course do their best to cause us as much harm as possible, but… don`t you believe they`d be more interested in reaching the westerlands and the capital?”

Sandor met his gaze levelly. “I believe Daven Lannister is too bloody stubborn and too loyal to his house to withdraw as long as someone keeps sending him orders from King’s Landing,” he rasped in return. “We know they`ve received orders to get their hands on Sansa Stark at any cost.” There had to be a bloody good reason for that… Unless Cersei had grasped control again, doing things for her own reasons, someone had taken a great risk to prioritise search parties instead of rallying every single soldier back to King’s Landing. “Daven might be stuck somewhere south of the Twins, and he is in no way the general Tywin was, but he`s persistent and crafty as fuck when he chooses to be. And not even Elder Brother knows his exact position at the moment. Steffon Swyft is known to find his own tactical twists to make all hell break loose when the enemy least expects it and Kennos of Kayce is a right old bastard who`ll continue on fighting an hour after his death.”

Piper snorted into his ale as Vance inclined his head soberly and spoke nearly absentmindedly over his fingertips. “It will be interesting to meet up with _our_ forces, getting the reports from the Twins…” He glanced with that sad expression of his at Little Lew, whose mirth abated instantly. “Be that as it may, what are you suggesting, Commander? Apart from the obvious solution of strengthening the watch, doubling the guard on the baggage train and sending scouts out in scores?”

“Turning our large unwieldy army into small, independent and mobile forces marching side by side as one,” Sandor rasped, letting his gaze slide over them all. “Creating units with their separate line of command where every man knows exactly what to do if we`re under attack, turning the enemies’ leverage against themselves as they end up fighting several bands at the same time, none of them in need of waiting for the regular command structure. It will turn nasty as hell, but fighting fast and dirty will take away their benefit completely. Being trapped in those hedgehogs we talked about by _such_ a foe will be a deadly surprise at the speed of lightning for those bastards.” 

“And so ‘all warfare involves the employment of one's strength to exploit the weakness of the enemy,’” Robin Ryger muttered. “Beldecar, the ‘History of the Rhoynish Wars.’”

Sandor felt his mouth twitch into a wry half-grin. “ _Yes._ ”

“Gods be good, Hound,” Waxley yawned. “We have an army ten thousand strong. We`ve got food and clothes and horse enough to chase starved Lannisters wherever we wish. I agree with Ser Mychel. We need to get the foot moving their lazy arses a bit faster so we can deliver Lady Sansa at Riverrun and turn our attention to the Targaryens.”

Redford looked sideways at the sod and opened his mouth as if to protest in the most courteous way possible, no fucking doubt, but Ser Ellery interrupted him. “Shall we keep the men in units by arms or mix them, Commander?” He didn`t even seem to notice Waxley’s resentful stare. 

“Keep them sorted by arms and make the foot cooperate with crossbows, horse with pikes,” Sandor answered, noting Peck’s curt nod and Corbray’s determinded expression. It _was_ the best solution he could come up with to avoid losing a ridiculous amount of men _before_ they even ended in up in possible combat against the Targaryens. But it required good men to lead and merciless discipline. It required the lords to let go of some of their control. “Drill them into moving fast as fuck to form necks in the _retreat route_ of the attackers, let the foot form walls and force the bloody cavalry to hold until the traps have been sprung. Hedgehogs work poorly without the element of surprise. _And_ I want a demonstration from those longbowmen.”

Blacksunder and Hobb gave their ‘yes, Commander’ promptly along with the riverlander seconds, Vance leant back and Redford breathed out. Ryger just looked bemusedly at him for some reason. “One more thing,” Sandor added irritably as Waxley had the nerve to roll his eyes. “Redford, you have the responsibility to inform Bronze Yohn of my _decisions_ tonight in his absence. If he has questions, I`ll be happy as hell to meet with him on the morrow.”

They took it as the dismissal it was and left his tent under varying versions of ‘Hound’ and ‘Commander.’ Sandor followed Waxley with his eyes as he left, feeling the itch to simply leave the bastard behind the next day. Buried headfirst in a latrine. 

Stickboy sat more or less sleeping in a corner beside Sandor’s now clean and stacked armour, so he dismissed the lad as well and managed to wash down some more dark ale for lack of proper wine. Sitting like that drinking in silent solitude as he pondered roles, tactics and arrogant lackwits felt mightily all right, actually. The day’s endeavours slid off him to the sound of the camp settling in for the night, until a tap on the canvas announced another idiot coming to disturb him.

“Sod off,” he snarled, feeling the half-drunken heaviness of his limbs as he stretched his legs out in front of him.

“Alas, my friend,” Elder Brother’s deep voice answered as the flap was untied, “my lady would have find a courteous way to station me inside my own bird-cages for the rest of the journey if I avoided my responsibilities concerning your health.” He bent his neck as he walked inside carrying his leather case, lowering the hood of his brown robe as he moved with quiet dignity, taking the chair opposite Sandor on the other side of the trestle table. Glancing down at the still displayed map with interest, he put the case on the tabletop and started lying out his tools. “How was today’s march, Sandor?”

“Fair enough,” Sandor grunted, taking another swallow of the brown brew that slowly numbed him.

Elder Brother’s eyes met his with a shrewdness that made Sandor hold their gaze in pure, stubborn opposition to the man always being so bloody… observant. Elder Brother sighed. “I will take a look at your wounds and give you a mixture of herbs for your discomforts. What you really need, though, is rest.”

 _Rest._ Seven bleeding hells. On a fucking pallet. _Alone._

Elder Brother seemed satisfied with Sandor’s dully aching leg and arm, he even removed the stitches from the latter, finally freeing his body completely of Sansa’s embroidery. Which for some reason felt… strange. His side earned a worried expression, though, but no further comment other than a firm reminder to take it slow and that he would need at least four more weeks to be fully recovered. The man had been a soldier, after all. He understood the way of knowing your body, knowing how far you could push it. Pain was one thing, but fucking up how you earned your living because of some show-off whim was pure idiocy, both of them knew that. 

Watching the man mix the herbs with water, Sandor suddenly remembered that he was supposed to get that bleeding tea for Sansa. _And the three-day herbs._ Fuck, this was awkward. Why couldn`t she order Willow to get it for her? It must be some kind of thing she had for making him do her bidding like some stupid knight from her childhood stories, riding to the moon and back for the fucking princess in the tower… collecting bleeding moon-dew on a leaf or something equally silly.

But it didn`t stop at that. Not only would he be the first man in history to come begging for bloody _moon tea,_ he would simultaneously admit that he`d sullied the agonizingly pretty and highborn maid that had been his fucking _charge_ up until then. And what the hell would Elder Brother make of that? Somehow, Sandor had the distinct impression that he wouldn`t be overly impressed about it, despite the strange view the robed man obviously had on their… flaming love affair.

 _Wait._ Three-day _herbs?_ That meant he had a day left to go. Bugger him if he wouldn`t force Willow into getting it for her mistress tomorrow, then. _He_ was obviously not wanted in Lady Stark’s grand party of lords and ladies unless the sky fell down on them, so Willow would have to deliver it anyway, no matter who did the begging. 

Utterly relieved, filled with his own herbs and being just the right amount of drunk, he blew out the oil lamps and went to bed after Elder Brother had left with a mild ‘goodnight.’ Dressed in his tunic and breeches in addition to being covered in his bedroll and blankets he even felt warm. Not as pleasant as having his Little Bird’s naked body curled up against him, but… fuck, wrong images. 

It was too late, though. The sensation of her skin against his own, hot against his own, seemed to have etched itself into his flesh. That he missed her by an unbelievable amount did nothing to lessen the increasing pressure against his laces either. Still, fucking into his hand didn`t feel tempting at all, just… unsatisfying. He was sore as well, for that matter. Annoyed by his own arousal he tried to ignore the hard thing. He didn`t want an empty release. He wanted _her._

So, Sandor tried to turn his mind to better use than fantasizing about something he wouldn`t get. He continued to plan the training of the men and pondered the need for trying out the plan involving the cooperating bands in _practice_ before the Lions fell on them. And then he lost interest because ‘fell on’ for some reason reminded him of ‘on top of’ and he found himself unconsciously rubbing his cock through his breeches with his wrist, vivid images of Sansa straddling him again flowing through his head. 

Fuck, how he wanted her. No matter how haughty she`d behaved today. And hell how useless it felt to give in and unlace himself to do something about it after snatching a rag from the saddlebags, concluding tiredly that he was all too hard and a bit too drunk to give a damn about soreness.

Because what he _wanted_ was her mouth around him. Her tongue on his skin, her soft moans and her hands on his back, the way she`d pushed him deeper inside her by grabbing his arse last night… His hand folded around his shaft as if by itself, pleasure strangely enough tingling through him in a new way at stroking himself again _after_ all they`d done together. After she`d let him fuck her, her bloody acceptance. _Her love._

Somehow, the old self-loathing thoughts about his own needs up against the disgust and badly hidden fright from the women he`d used to get frustrated releases from couldn`t find hold anymore. All he could see was Sansa… Sansa who writhed beneath him as she spread her legs wide for him, her cunt tightening as she peaked, and squirmed, and clawed at his back and moaned like a flaming Goddess when he lost it inside her. 

He moved his hand faster as his breath quickened, remembering the feeling of her hands palming his balls, tightening gently around them, how she was always so fucking wet for him, her honest arousal and her bleeding kisses. Fuck, her kisses felt good. Like all he`d ever wanted. Like the feeling when your body responded to the clear strongwine of White Harbour, burning into your veins fast as fuck… the feeling of bloodlust and warm forest sun at the same time. And her wet kisses down his neck, his stomach, her pretty noises as her tongue caressed his cock. He heard himself groan nearly inaudibly and turned his face into his bedroll to strangle the sound. Feeling the wetness leaking from the tip of him as his hips started to move needily as hell, he spread it carefully with his fingertips, like she always did, instead of his thumb, feeling his pleasure surge at the images in his head.

He longed for a bed and some fucking _time_ to seek out how she liked other things, watch her reactions, feel her lust and passion, the pressure of her around him and her nails digging into his skin again. Tightening his hand around his cock, he fucked into it as he pressed his forefinger gently against the knot of flesh right under the head rhythmically for every stroke – feeling himself near by routine, but found that he wanted this fantasy to last a bit longer.

Because she would look bloody gorgeous if she rode him properly, her teats bouncing, her hips rocking him into the heavens. She would look stunning from behind as well, for that matter. He`d surprised himself by wanting to take her that way yesterday when she was grinding herself against him in his lap… hell how that arse of hers would be tempting if she knelt on all fours… her auburn mane spilling over her arched back. 

Somehow, his covers where a bit too easy to tighten his arm around, just to bleeding pretend, shifting so he had it bundled up against him he imagined her turning her head, the way her eyes darkened when she was aroused. Because she _would_ turn to look at him, amazingly enough. She would probably gasp and buck her hips eagerly in anticipation for his cock, too, and looking at her cunt that way… Pressing _into_ her warm tightness that way… 

He stroked his shaft harder, pleasure building as he held back his peak. His breath coming fast as fuck as a position he`d usually connected with unwilling whores suddenly turned bleeding exciting in his mind as he moved his hand up and down his cock heatedly. And refused point-blank to give in to the shitty thoughts that used to come if he tried to envision certain women, even her. _Especially her._

But now… his Little Bird was the queen of fantasising herself. She found it arousing. If he told her about what he was doing right now she would probably get off on it, her lips would part, she would kiss him hungrily and her tongue would find his. And if he took her from behind like that, if he grabbed her hair and pulled like she wanted him to, like _he_ wanted to, exposing her neck, watching her mouth as she whimpered her pleas for more… He nearly didn`t manage to cover his cock with the rag before his insides just fucking exploded. Hot seed spurting over his hand as he writhed against his balled up covers, his ears ringing with the memories of her gasps and moans as he suppressed his own, his release pulsing sweet as heaven, pleasure raining through him without even one contemptuous comment to himself in his head.

Lying there, spent like hell as he dried off his hand and – ah, fuck, still sore – he wondered why. The Lady of Winterfell obviously felt in severe need of keeping her distance, but _Sansa_ wanted him. She found him good enough, she flaming loved him. And he wanted her as his wife, the highborn fucking lady from _his_ childhood stories. He wanted to live his life instead of wasting it. With her… when she was the heiress to the throne of the old Kings of Winter. _And_ the Imp’s wife. How could he forget about that? _Another joke on your part, you blasted Gods? Give me all I need when I can`t get it?_

What he _really_ wanted was her warm body next to him as she slept every night, her fucking caresses, waking up with her, watching her smile sleepily at him. How could something feel so discontenting, so irrationally frustrating, so utterly like his old _unrest_ when he was so bleeding joyous about getting her in the first place? Still… he wouldn`t give some flaming Gods, or anyone else for that matter, the pleasure of buggering his head to pieces. He would be happy as hell for what he already had.

Doing something he hadn`t done in years, he lifted his hands in the dark and let his fingers really _feel_ over his ruined face, felt the good left side at the same time as his fingertips followed the twisted scar-tissue ravaging the right. And for the first bleeding time it didn`t feel that… _bad_ … It hadn`t changed in any way, but… feeling as foolish as he`d felt as a lad when wishing for magic and miracles to fix it again, he found himself concluding that if Sansa insanely enough insisted on finding him fucking _beautiful_ and was willing to go all furious over it… that she wouldn`t even trade him away for a youngster of her own taste, that she wanted to have his bastards… 

It _helped._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the italics-mess for a while, there...


	35. I NEED A BETA for Chapter 35, The Riverlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas teaser ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey people - long time, no see ;)
> 
> I`ve always intended to finish this story - even though I`ve been quiet for two years. So now, I`m searching for a Brit beta with more or less flawless language, humour, thoroughness and patience to teach a rusty Norwegian English grammar all over again ;) It has to be someone with a good portion of enthusiasm for this story, an eye for subtlety, a liking for my style of writing - and enough time in your life to work chapters back and forth with me. I`m writing book-canon, and have no intention of sliding toward the HBO-version of events. Needless to say, you need to have read the books and love them for the characterization displayed there. Absolute honesty is vital. I won`t always do what you want, but I will value your opinion _greatly._ Don`t worry, I can handle a good smack in the face ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Interested? Please give me notice in a comment :)

Jaime grinned after the handsome shit before studiously giving Sandor a flashy bow, complete with his hand on the hilt of his sword and all. “Good morning, Commander. In a brilliant mood today as always, are we?”

Sandor glared sourly at him before concluding that it was all too early to chase the insufferably grinning cat anywhere. “Seven bloody save me from high lords and brats alike,” he grumbled. “I`ve got a herd of fleas bunching after me whenever I turn a corner, and Bronze Yohn’s up to something that includes me tripping over my own feet, or that blasted ser wouldn`t have been so close to losing his bowels.”

Jaime’s grin turned to a chuckle. “Ah, yes, the pleasure of sparring for power… I`m sure you`re going to love the rest of the riverlords when they turn up. The valiant saviours of Riverrun themselves, Gods have mercy. ”

“I`m not fucking sparring for power, I`m trying to avoid losing half the bloody force to red-clad snipers!” Sandor growled back, feeling naked without a clear definition to his post, but still knowing war for fuck’s sake, having no patience for an aggrieved old lord’s revenge.

Jaime sighed as he ruffled through his golden hair. “Sometimes you`re quite dense, dog, do you know that?” he replied lightly.

“I`ve seldom heard it from people who`s kept their health,” Sandor growled as they started walking towards Lady Stark’s tent and her guard. 

“Right. How insolent of them to imply that you`re nothing but muscle,” Jaime murmured blithely, but then just shrugged it off. “Next time, I would suggest you put your tail between your legs and show up when the Lord of Runestone whistles. It is somehow so much more sophisticated stealing away his men right under his nose, you see. They`re soldiers, they know good tactics when it`s piled up in front of them, and remarkable many fighting men actually want to survive, surprisingly enough.”

Sandor glanced sideways at the golden-haired cock who`d been born into command, getting every bleeding advantage there was. “Right. And you did marvellously on your own when your lordly father set you to command half the host of the westerlands, did you?” he muttered grumpily. “Went especially well at the Whispering Woods, or so we heard in King’s Landing.”

Jaime’s green eyes glittered dangerously for a heartbeat before true mirth replaced it. “While you obviously were busy staring at northern birdlife instead of guarding the king – and may I remind you that the birdlife in question was frighteningly young at the time – some of us fought bravely against our spoken enemies.” He grinned widely at Sandor’s instant snort. The way he was nailing Sandor’s fucking weakness for Lord Stark’s child of a daughter felt too bloody revealing even now, and the bastard flaming knew it. “The Whispering Woods was me doing what you should not, though,” the Lion continued. “Cantering headfirst into a trap.”

“I`m bloody well trying to keep us all out of traps at the moment,” Sandor replied gruffly as they neared the grey and white silk containing all he flaming wanted in life.

“Yes, you`re not half as arrogant as I was…just a bit bull-headed,” the Lion replied with a hitch to his shoulders. Seven hells he was annoying today. 

“Our bronzed lord was setting me to play stones with the knights, Jaime! What the hell should I have done instead then, if you`re so fucking clever?” he rasped irritably, watching the guards straighten at the sight of them.

“Not much, to be honest,” Jaime began, unperturbed. “A slight change of location for that meeting would probably have been in order, perhaps?”

Sandor glared at him. “I was a hair from falling down where I stood,” he muttered, feeling that admission sting pretty hard.

The Lion glanced searchingly at him. “That explains quite a few things…” His mouth twisted treacherously. “Oh, Gods be good, that`s why Brienne…” He laughed out loud. “Do you have any idea how many whispers I`ve heard about your frightening thoroughness? How you seem to find the complete army an utter mess and apparently has inspected every living soul at his task and stretched up half the commando-line to the hells and back?”

“By the Stranger’s balls,” Sandor breathed. “I just couldn`t get off my fucking horse.”

“You know,” Jaime grinned, “I have to admit, you are horribly right about your orders, and you already know you`ve provoked Bronze Yohn immensely as you`re simply too seasoned not to. And you`re probably right in feeling that you had no choice if you wanted to keep a tad of authority.” 

“Then what in the seven burning hells makes me dense as a fucking oxen in your opinion then, you three-legged piece of shit?” Sandor rasped, giving a good go at flinging his hands up in exasperation, and receiving a hard stab of pain from his shield arm for his thoughtlessness.

Jaime’s eyes met his with a sudden seriousness over his wry grin. “Because, small decisions and mere irksome chance may end in large consequences. Yohn Royce think you`re picking a fight with him because of those very two things, but you still insist on clinging to what is sensible. To put it plain: you need to change your approach. He`s an old man, set in his ways and used to his position. It`s rather exhausting, I know, but you have to work around it.”

“Jaime, fuck… I`m still trying to figure out what in the seven hells is expected of me! I`m trying to cooperate with the bastard, but I`m bloody well beneath his dignity to talk to, apparently, and… I don`t know how the hell I should have handled things differently,” Sandor growled, trying to keep it quiet as not to notify every single person around him.

Jaime’s eyes still held that strange seriousness. “You didn`t expect this journey to be easy, did you?” He sighed and stopped, turning to him. “You`ll do fine, dog. I`ve been in enough situations myself where I thought I had no choice to know…” He breathed in deeply. “That in most of them… I had.” 

And then the Lion simply dipped his head at him and wandered straight past the guards and into Lady Stark’s tent without even tapping the canvas, leaving Sandor staring at the grey fabric as if it was the fucking gate to the heavens before he kicked himself into motion and went to kick other men awake.


End file.
